


A Passing of Guilt

by AZombieWrites (EgorStandish)



Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: Angst, Crime, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-06 08:35:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16384799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EgorStandish/pseuds/AZombieWrites
Summary: A vicious, domineering wife: deceased. A husband rumoured to have a nervous disposition. A disgraced doctor surrounded by rumour. A questionable death. A meddling priest reluctant to meddle and a detective inspector who isn't feeling well. They all come together, brought into a violent confrontation when the wrong person asks too many questions.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Based on the character created by GK Chesterton and the tv series/characters created by Rachel Flowerday and Tahsin Guner.
> 
> **Author's Note:** Set during season 3.

Inspector Sullivan moved along the hallway, feet finding their way in the dark. Up ahead, a door, slightly ajar, a splinter of light escaping, not enough to light his way. Soft voices echoed through the hallway, a muted conversation, the words difficult to distinguish, the voices hard to recognise but he had his suspicions. Close enough and he would be able to eavesdrop, people more willing to admit guilt to a priest than a Kembleford police inspector . . . more willing to reveal something important, something that may very well condemn a murderer.

Floorboards creaked beneath his feet, Sullivan hesitating, a muttered curse voiced, too low to be heard. The conversation coming to an abrupt end, Sullivan moved quickly, the footsteps of Sergeant Goodfellow slapping against the floor behind him. Felt the urge to roll his eyes, Goodfellow sounding more like a stumbling elephant than a competent police officer.

Pushing a door open, his intrusion unannounced, Inspector Sullivan stepped into a small, cluttered living room, the occupants revealed, the tension immediate and . . . stopped. Not in astonishment, no longer inclined to feel surprised at finding Father Brown at a crime scene, the priest’s appearance now a reluctant expectation but at the expression playing across Father Brown’s features.

Stone-faced, Brown seemed to be trying very hard not to look at the two police officers, an amusing result, the priest giving off an air of constipation. Although familiar with that particular expression – he’d seen it often – the cause and reason for it eluded Sullivan. Knew it was important, mouth opening to voice his curiosity, interrupted when Sergeant Goodfellow moved in behind him, forcing Sullivan to move further forward, stopping once again when he reached the center of the room. 

Goodfellow stopped beside him, so close their shoulders brushed against each other, the force of the movement shifting Sullivan’s balance. Patience already short, Sullivan turned his head to look at Goodfellow, his expression revealing his irritation. Goodfellow, nodding in understanding, took a short step back, his head lowered, his gaze shifting with awkward embarrassment. Sullivan grimaced, suddenly understanding, his response to Goodfellow’s close proximity making him look foolish, undermining his authority before he’d had a chance to implement his position as a detective inspector. 

Turned back to face the priest. 

Father Brown sat on a tattered lounge, its pattern of flowers fading into a background full of dull browns, his umbrella perched beside him, leaning at a precarious angle. Beside the priest sat Albert Atwood, the newly grieving widower. Lowering his gaze, Sullivan watched as Brown’s fingers played with the brim of his hat. 

Looking back up, gaze travelling, Sullivan took note of the stole Father Brown wore around his neck and over his shoulders. Interesting. The priest wore the stole when giving last rites or taking confession. Came to a conclusion; to ignore the strong need to appease his growing inquisitiveness, the explanation for the blank expression would show itself to him eventually. Would no doubt regret it if he made a direct inquiry. 

Removing his hat, holding it in his left hand, Sullivan decided a subtle greeting would be best, no reason yet to throw accusations. “Mr. Atwood, I’m Inspector Sullivan and this--”

“I know who you are,” said Atwood.

Sullivan nodded in acknowledgement and returned his gaze to the priest. “Father Brown.”

“Good evening, Inspector,” said Brown, still refusing to make eye contact, his head turned away, staring at the front window, the view hidden behind a set of heavy curtains, the original colour not easy to discern.

Flicking his gaze back toward Atwood for a brief moment before looking back to Brown, Sullivan said, “Giving last rites, Father, or have you been taking Mr. Atwood’s confession?”

Brown lifted his chin, defiant, silent, his guilt apparent. 

“The Father gave my wife last rites, Inspector, and now he’s giving me counsel.”

“Is that what the Father calls it?”

Goodfellow smirked.

A small reaction from Father Brown, the man about to protest Sullivan’s remark, mouth opening, words on the tip of his tongue. Appearing to change his mind, Brown snapped his mouth closed, expression returning to a blank state, still refusing to take part in the conversation. 

Reaching into the inside of his coat, removing a black notebook and fountain pen, Sullivan stared at Albert Atwood, the man leaning back, away from Sullivan’s intensive gaze. Hair dark and untidy, his skin pale, his eyes difficult to read, Atwood was a tall man; seated he towered over Father Brown. Chest wide, his arms thick, he was an impressive figure of masculinity but it stopped there; rumours spoke of a man with a nervous nature, known around Kembleford as a man who lived under the vicious personality of a domineering wife. 

If the rumour was true . . . a possible motive established if cause of death was due to another’s hand. A flash of pain stumbled through Sullivan’s eyes as he continued to stare at Atwood; the thought of his own father encouraging his emotions, his defences. He knew . . . understood what it was like . . . growing up under the influence of a domineering parent, his father ruling the household with an iron hand. Empathised with Atwood . . . 

If the rumour was true.

If the man had no part in the death of his wife.

No time to dwell on his own past, a death to investigate. Putting his emotions aside, Sullivan said, “What time did your wife pass, Mr. Atwood?”

Atwood looked away, a quick glance toward Father Brown, something passing between the two men, before his gaze returned to Sullivan. The exchanged glance caught Sullivan’s attention, adding to his curiosity, his suspicions growing.

“I’m not sure. I wasn’t with her when she . . . I found her about an hour ago. She seemed all right this afternoon.”

“This afternoon? What time was that, Mr. Atwood?”

“About two. I took her up a cup of tea but she was asleep so I left her to it.”

A quick flick of his pen as Sullivan made a notation in his notebook. “How often do you check on her?”

“She usually yelled out if she needed something.”

“So, not very often then,” said Sullivan, lifting his gaze to look at Atwood.

“That’s not what I said. I . . . um . . . of course, I do. She was fine. Just tired. Slept a lot she did.”

“And where were you . . . before you found your wife dead?”

“I was here listening to the radio,” said Atwood, nodding at the other side of the room.

Sullivan looked back over his shoulder. A radio sat on a sideboard that looked to be on its last legs, its stability ready to crumble beneath the weight of too many cat figurines. A thin blanket of dust covered everything, including the radio. Turning away, Sullivan moved toward to the sideboard.

“I’m sorry about the mess. The wife hasn’t been up to cleaning lately.”

Not far to go, a few steps, the room so small. Leaning over, a closer look, Sullivan examined the radio, the knobs; too much dust caked between the knobs and the body of the radio . . . inconsistent with Atwood’s statement. The radio hadn’t been used in a long time. 

“Do you listen to the radio often, Mr. Atwood?” said Sullivan, making a note of it in his police issued notebook as he turned to face the man. 

“The wife liked to listen to the . . . uh . . . Goon Show every week,” said Atwood. 

“What do you like to listen to, Mr. Atwood?”

Atwood, struggling to sit still, said, “I don’t have any favourites. I listen to whatever is on.”

“And what was on this afternoon?”

“What?”

“What were you listening to, Mr. Atwood?” said Sullivan, glancing back over his shoulder at Atwood.

“I don’t remember. Everything is a blank. Shock, I guess.”

“You guess . . .”

Sullivan nodded and moved back into the center of the room, next to Goodfellow, a united front. He noticed the look Father Brown threw his way; recognition made, it was a look of approval . . . as though he needed the approval of an intrusive, amateur detective. Didn’t allow the look to linger, returning his gaze to Atwood, the man watching him with too much care.

“Do you own a cat, Mr. Atwood?”

The question threw Atwood – as Sullivan intended – the confidence he was discharging faltering . . . the confidence a contradiction to the rumours . . . if they were true. 

“What? No. The wife use to collect them. She was allergic to cats, thought those were the next best thing. Ugly things if you ask me.”

“A bit early to refer to your wife in the past tense. She only died . . . I’m sorry, when did you say she died?”

“I didn’t.”

“No, you didn’t . . .”

“Her death was expected, Inspector. She’d been sick for a long time.”

“Then I can assume her doctor will have records of his consultations with your wife.”

“I can’t account for his records.”

“What time did you call the doctor?”

“Straight away.”

“And Father Brown? When did you call him?”

“After I called the doctor,” said Atwood.

“About an hour ago,” said Sullivan, nodding.

Leaning forward, Atwood said, “I don’t really understand, Inspector. Why are you here?”

“It’s procedure, Mr. Atwood. Is the doctor still here?”

“No.”

“Did he leave a death certificate?”

“No.”

Sullivan frowned. “Why not?”

Atwood waved a hand, a dismissive motion. “Said he would drop one off in the morning.”

“Did he offer any suggestions as to how your wife died?”

Father Brown shifted in his seat, his hat falling from his hands onto the floor. Muttering an apology, Brown leaned over, paused, lifted his gaze to stare directly at Sullivan . . . a silent conversation before snatching his hat off the floor and sitting back up, his back straight, eyes once again staring at the window, fingers blindly brushing the dust from his hat.

Sullivan smiled, more of a grimace, unable to decipher Brown’s expression during the few seconds Brown had actually looked at him. Was certain the priest was trying to tell him something, communication without words, with only a look, his eyes so expressive. To Sullivan it had all been gibberish, unable to understand what the priest was trying to say, what he was trying to convey. Shook the moment off; if Father Brown wanted him to know something he would tell him in a more private environment . . . whether Sullivan wanted to hear it or not. Damn meddlesome . . .

“She died of natural causes.”

Returned his attention back to the conversation . . . the interview. “Did the doctor tell you that?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Then why do you assume she died of natural causes?”

“I told you. She’d been sick.”

“In what way?”

“Her heart,” said Atwood, staring back at Sullivan. “She probably had a heart attack in her sleep.”

A little confused and suspicious, Sullivan wondered why the doctor hadn’t left a death certificate. A regular consultant, he would be aware of her condition, aware of imminent death. “The name of the doctor who saw to your wife, Mr. Atwood and then I would like to see your wife’s body.”

Atwood frowned. “The undertaker is preparing to take her away.”

“Not until after I’ve examined the scene, Mr. Atwood,” said Sullivan, turning his gaze toward Brown, waiting for the expected interruption. None came, Brown still silent, still determined to look elsewhere. Hesitation kept Sullivan’s gaze steady, curiosity quickly turning to suspicion, mind acknowledging the prolonged absence of meddling. So unlike the Father, the oddity in front of him so out of place, such an uncommon thing at a crime scene. Normally interfering, always meddling, never hesitant in pointing out evidence, voicing a question, giving suggestions. Today, in attendance but only giving a look, verbally silent. Something nagged at the back of his mind. Understanding slow to arrive. Narrowed his eyes in thought.

“Are you going to examine my wife as well? Try to determine how she died?” said Atwood.

The words snapped his gaze away, back toward Atwood. “As I’ve told you, it’s procedure. I need to see the scene. I need to look for anything suspicious. Anything that may--”

“Suspicious? What are you suggesting, Inspector?”

“At the moment, I’m not suggesting anything. It’s too early to form any conclusions, Mr. Atwood.”

“Who do you think you are? You come barging in here. Offer no condolences. And you make suggestions my wife’s death wasn’t natural.” Atwood clenched his hands in an awkward embrace in his lap. A twitch in his left leg, a slow bounce, his face revealing his struggle to remain passive, to keep still. A valiant effort, his failure obvious when his fingers began a merry dance. “My wife was sick, Inspector. She died of natural causes.”

Father Brown coughed, not as subtle as a look, drawing the stare of everyone in the room toward him. A slight smile, the expression twisting into something else, a grimace. Sullivan assumed it was an apology. Turned his gaze away, catching the wince of guilt crossing the priest’s features in his peripheral. More confirmation something wasn’t right, the atmosphere wrong . . . uncomfortable, Brown constantly reminding Sullivan the priest was acting out of character. Turning his gaze back to Brown, Sullivan took a moment to think about it. Couldn’t help but reaffirm his suspicions. An explanation for the priest’s expression, his behaviour, took a step forward, closer, the answer forming at the back of Sullivan’s mind; slowing coming together . . . he left it to simmer. 

Shifted his gaze back to Atwood, a slow deliberate movement. “The name of your wife’s doctor, please, Mr. Atwood?”

“You’ll believe him but you won’t believe me, is that it?”

Sergeant Goodfellow leaned forward, past Sullivan. “If the doctor confirms natural death--”

“Yes! Thank you, sergeant,” said Sullivan, turning to face his sergeant, his words, his expression shutting down Goodfellow’s explanation. There was no reason, no need to explain themselves, their intentions or their actions. They were here to investigate a death, and until proven otherwise, his intention, his training taught him to treat it as suspicious. “The name of the doctor, please, Mr. Atwood. I won’t ask again.”

“Doctor Hartford.”

The name recognised, Hartford’s reputation, his past, another possible clue; the man surrounded by his own set of rumours, most of them true. The man should have lost his licence long ago, too many friends in high places keeping him where he is. Practicing in a small country village where he could successfully associate any rumours to local gossip. Deny, lie and continue as though nothing were wrong. 

And if that didn’t work, start your own rumours, create malicious gossip that would deflect or explain; give them something else to talk about. But the physician couldn’t hide a police record or a malpractice suit . . . couldn’t hide from a Kembleford detective inspector who had dealings with him in the past. Sullivan looked down, wrote the name in his notebook, drawing an elaborate question mark beside it.

An explanation as to why Hartford hadn’t left a death certificate; reasonable cause . . . suspicious Mrs. Atwood’s death wasn’t natural, taking an opportunity to blackmail, to coerce payment to place Atwood’s diagnosis on the death certificate. The man had done it before, no reason why he wouldn’t try it again. A question he would put to Doctor Hartford in the morning.

Looked back at Atwood. “I understand he can be unreliable. Easily manipulated. Even known to take a payment or two to . . . reconsider a diagnosis.”

Frowning, Father Brown turned his head, his gaze finding Sullivan. Feeling the scrutiny, Sullivan looked at Brown, let out a breath, a soft sigh of frustration. He wasn’t an idiot, aware that Brown had to know about Doctor Hartford, Mrs. McCarthy notorious for relaying village gossip. Perhaps, Brown was surprised that Kembleford’s detective inspector knew about the doctor’s reputation.

“You’re making suggestions again, Inspector.”

“No, Mr. Atwood. I’m not.”

Atwood stood up, his full height revealed. Brown followed, snapping his body off the couch, his umbrella falling from its perch. Taking a step forward, the priest put his shoulder in front of Atwood, an obstruction created. So obvious now that something was seriously wrong, Brown protecting the widower . . . or was he making a not so subtle attempt to protect two of Kembleford’s police officers.

“I hope you know how to grovel, Inspector, because that’s what you’ll need to do if you expect me to accept your apology when this is over.”

Not easily intimidated, Sullivan smiled and said, “I have no intention of grovelling, or apologising, Mr. Atwood.”

“Inspector Sullivan,” said Brown, his voice hoarse, dry. “Need I remind you, Mr. Atwood’s wife has died?”

Surprised by Brown’s tone of voice, his verbal reprimand, Sullivan took a step forward, looked at Brown, his stare unflinching. Refused to look away, Brown relenting, looking away first. Satisfied, he’d regained control of the situation, the conversation, Sullivan looked back at Atwood. He could see the anger in the man’s eyes, the tension in his muscles; the man was ready and willing to lash out, to lose his temper. 

Felt Goodfellow behind him, the sergeant reading the situation as well as Sullivan had, his position showing support, a willingness to step in if his physical strength was required. Although Sullivan was confident of taking care of himself in a physical altercation, Albert Atwood was something different; he had muscle where Sullivan didn’t; he had height, Sullivan’s six foot not enough against this man. It would take cunning, dirty tactics to take Atwood down, or when available, an extra man . . . Sergeant Goodfellow. Sullivan now grateful he had brought his loyal sergeant with him. If things continued in the direction Atwood’s mood indicated, he was going to need Goodfellow . . . 

Taking advantage of an opportunity – a little pressure might cause the man to snap, reveal his real personality, confident they could take him if the situation became volatile – Sullivan smiled and said, “Are the rumours true, Mr. Atwood?”

“What rumours?” said Atwood, his shoulders slumping, fingers twitching at his side.

Atwood knew of the rumours, Sullivan was certain.

“The rumours about your wife.”

A look of relief crossed Atwood’s features, a quick disappearance, a mask put back in place. 

“It’s rumoured your wife was . . .” said Sullivan, pausing, looking to his sergeant to continue. “What was it, sergeant?”

“His wife has . . . sorry . . . had a nasty personality and was very bossy,” said Goodfellow.

“That’s true, Inspector, but can you blame her. She was sick all the time--”

“So what you’re saying, Mr. Atwood, is that your wife’s illness attributed to her personality.”

“Yes.”

“Are you aware there are also rumours about you?”

Atwood sat down, falling back onto the lounge, a look of defeat converging, covering his features.

“I’m asking because your behaviour contradicts the rumours. I’m wondering if it would be the same with your wife.”

“Rumours,” said Father Brown, still standing. “Always start with a speck of truth.”

It wasn’t much but it was a start, Brown putting his foot in, making a comment about the investigation. His tone sarcastic, his expression less than welcoming, Sullivan said, “Nice of you to finally join us, Father.”

Father Brown, face creasing in disappointment, gave Sullivan a look, one that was easy to interpret. Not sorry, Sullivan returned his attention back to Atwood. “Would you like to show us the way to your wife’s bedroom or--”

“Up the stairs, second door on your right. The undertaker will still be with her.”

Inspector Sullivan nodded and turned away. 

“If it’s all the same with you, Inspector,” said Father Brown, sitting back down next to Atwood. “I’ll stay here for the moment.”

Sullivan froze. Turned back. Gave Brown a scrutinising stare. “I wasn’t going to ask you to join us, Father.”

Father Brown nodded, his gaze elsewhere, a deliberate snub, an arrogant dismissal, so unlike the priest to be rude. Another indication that Brown wasn’t acting himself, things becoming more complicated. An automatic retort, a verbal backlash, ready to respond, Sullivan realised Brown had already seen the body, giving Mrs. Atwood last rights. No doubt, the priest had taken advantage, studying the scene looking for clues. He’d done it before, slow to call the police, time taken to satisfy his inner amateur detective. Sullivan certain Brown had done it again, delaying Atwood’s call to the police. 

Could that explain Brown’s look of guilt, his behaviour? Was he not meddling now because he had found nothing to indicate murder? Could he have already concluded natural circumstances, a natural death? If that were the case, Brown would have gladly informed Sullivan, taken the opportunity to prove Sullivan’s deduction’s wrong, his line of questioning futile. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Sullivan wasn’t going to rely on Brown for answers. He would go over the scene, draw his own conclusions. Narrowed his eyes, turned and walked out of the room, Goodfellow close behind.  
.  
.  
.

Body language polite, Sullivan stepped into the bedroom, an offer of silent condolences; not sure Mrs. Atwood would hear him. He hesitated, scowled, a natural reaction to the smell of death. Decomposition so capable of inducing a sickening odor, his stomach rolling in slow, methodical motion at the thought . . . frowned. Suspicion continuing to grow, the smell, not strong enough to suggest a length of time of decomposition, but a suggestion that Elizabeth Atwood’s death wasn’t as recent as her husband had told them.

Moved further into the room, the scene before him . . . so calm. Body now in permanent slumber, Elizabeth Atwood looked peaceful, asleep, as though a light nudge, a snap of noise would wake her. There were no obvious signs of violence, of murder. No physical indications that would lead Sullivan to a conclusion of foul play . . . but the smell. Something gave him pause . . . instinct telling him a different story lay beneath what he believed to be a false exterior. 

Nodded to the undertaker, the man taking a step back at the sight of Goodfellow, the uniform an introduction, no words needed. Obvious as to why they were there. The undertaker, dressed in black, his dark hair combed back with a heavy amount of brylcreem, moved to a corner of the room, held his hands together in front and lowered his head, a small amount of privacy given. 

Sullivan considered asking him to leave the room, decided against it. If Albert Atwood accused him of falsifying evidence, of causing injury to his wife to show proof of murder, there would be a witness to contradict his accusations. Someone who could testify that Sullivan had done nothing more than carry out a visual examination of the body. 

“I need you to bear witness,” said Sullivan, turning to face the undertaker.

“Mr. Granger at your service, sir.”

“Mr. Granger,” said Sullivan, a slight nod before moving closer to the bed.

The smell stronger, reminding him Mrs. Atwood’s demise wasn’t recent, her death old, her last breath taken hours earlier, possibly the previous day. Under closer scrutiny, something looked familiar, Sullivan turning to face the undertaker.

“Is she in full rigor mortis?”

The undertaker looked at him, a surprise expression. “Yes, sir. Mrs. Atwood passed away at least twelve hours ago.”

Sullivan glanced back over his shoulder at Goodfellow before looking back at the undertaker. “Or longer. Full rigor lasts another twelve hours. And if the smell is any indication, she’s been dead a while.”

“She could have been dead anywhere up to twenty four hours?” said Goodfellow. “Atwood lied then.”

“It’s possible he didn’t notice,” said Sullivan, frowning down at the body before looking at the bedside tables: no evidence her husband had left her a cup of tea. “Opens the door, believes she’s asleep and then shuts her away again. Out of mind, out of sight.”

“But how do you not notice your wife has died?” said Goodfellow, looking at Sullivan. “Surely he must have noticed she hadn’t moved since the last time he checked on her.”

“Yes . . . It’s also possible he did realise she was dead. Perhaps he wanted to wait until it was dark before he called us in. Fewer officers on duty, a quick declaration of natural causes and off to the pub or home to the wi--” Remembered who was in the room. Snapped his head to the side and pointed in the undertaker’s direction. “You didn’t hear that!”

“No, sir. Of course not,” said Mr. Granger.

Sullivan nodded in satisfaction, believed the undertaker did not intend to repeat what he’d just heard. 

“Maybe,” said Goodfellow, “he waited a while to make sure she was dead?”

“Maybe,” said Sullivan looking back at the body laid out on the bed. A step closer, his knees touching the edge of the bed. Breathed through his mouth, not willing . . . he didn't want the odour emanating from Elizabeth Atwood to invade his sinuses.

He reached out, knuckles of his fingers brushing across the side of Mrs. Atwood’s face, her skin soft, cold like ice. Her flesh was pale, almost translucent. Blue veins, like a stagnant river, ran beneath skin that had aged prematurely, her age not yet reaching forty. Hair already turning grey cut short, the edges uneven; it suited her. Face round, nose pinched, her lips plump; she reminded Sullivan of his aunt on his mother’s side. Removed his touch and turned away from the bed. 

Noticed Goodfellow and the undertaker watching him. Feeling self-conscious, Sullivan said, “It will be criminal negligence or manslaughter.”

“What about murder, sir?” said Goodfellow.

“I see no signs of a physical injury but considering Mr. Atwood lied about her time of death, I think a full post mortem is in order. Arrange it will you, sergeant. Without telling Mr. Atwood. I’ll inform him myself of our ongoing investigation.”

“Yes, sir,” said Goodfellow, nodding and leaving the room.

Left alone with Mrs. Atwood and the undertaker, Sullivan no longer felt the need to have a witness present while he gave a cursorily examination, Mrs. Atwood’s death not fresh, any injuries inflicted now would be ineffective. Frowned at the thought, aware there were police officers in existence that would do such a thing, anything to prove guilt, bias in the direction of blame. Planting evidence, inflicting injuries; something he would never do . . . something he had never considered. 

“Mr. Granger, your services will no longer be required. I’ll have the police surgeon inform you when he’s ready to release Mrs. Atwood back to your care.”

“You’re no longer in need of a witness?”

“Not anymore. Mrs. Atwood has been dead an extended amount of time. If I were to inflict any new injuries to falsify culpability they would be attributed to someone other than her killer and I’m yet to find any proof of foul play.”

“I’m sorry,” said Granger. “I didn’t mean to suggest you would do such a thing. I meant no offence, sir.”

“You made no suggestions, Mr. Granger and I take no offence. I appreciate your discretion.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Granger, moving away toward the door, pausing in the open doorway. “If he did cause her death, I hope to God you prove it.”

“I’ll do my best, Mr. Granger.”

Waited until the undertaker left the room and then made a slow turn, gaze taking in the small space; everything in this cottage cramped and cluttered. A normal sense of urgency to open the window, allow the smell of death to escape, to make breathing more bearable. He moved further away from the bed, keeping his distance. His gaze travelled the room a second time, looking for anything that would prove foul play had occurred. Saw nothing, only more dust, more clutter, more figurines; Mrs. Atwood loved her cats. A soft smile, a gentle expression, a hint of amusement, Sullivan certain Mrs. Atwood wouldn’t be offended.

A few minutes to make a more thorough search of the room, the dust telling him nothing was out of place. Stepped back toward the bed. Got down on his hands and knees. A tawny owl sounded in the distance, mating season well underway. A sudden rush of wind, a tree branch slapping against the window. Looked under the bed, nothing hidden, nothing that would frighten a small child or a detective inspector. Made a move to stand up, pausing when something caught his attention. A closer look.

On the worn, tread wooden floor, a very recent addition . . . a piece of white, cotton thread resting on top of a thin layer of dust . . . undisturbed.

.  
.  
.

The investigation took a different direction, Albert Atwood not happy, Father Brown doing everything he could to keep the man calm. Sullivan had explained his intent, more than once, a repetitive conversation, Atwood claiming a lack of understanding, adamant that his wife had died of natural causes. Sullivan kept the discovery of the cotton fibre close to his chest, certain Father Brown was already aware of that particular piece of evidence; Sullivan surprised the evidence had still been there, Father Brown known to remove evidence from a crime scene and keep it to himself, away from the prying eyes of Kembleford’s detective inspector.

The only information he released to Atwood was to expect the police surgeon and a collection of uniformed police officers to take photos of the scene and to collect anything that may prove to be evidence. Assured Atwood the officers would do a thorough search of the cottage. The widower not happy when Sullivan explained the coroner was going to conduct a full post mortem the next day. He had then left the man in the capable hands of Father Brown. Left the house to carry out an investigation he was now confident would lead to an arrest and a conviction for murder.

Waited outside, expecting Father Brown to make his excuses to Atwood and follow, intent on offering advice and suggestions, to ask if Kembleford’s detective inspector had noticed evidence that only a blind man . . . or an incompetent detective inspector would miss. Sullivan wasn’t waiting to take advice but to express the need for Brown to stay out of his investigation. The man was too meddlesome for his own good, often putting himself at risk, coming close to death on more than one occasion. 

It was like second nature to the man, an obsessive need to investigate. Why Brown had become a priest, Sullivan had no idea and he wasn’t going to ask, the man’s reasons private, not for someone else’s judgement. But Sullivan knew with a certainty that one day he would go too far, lose his life or worse . . . be responsible for the loss of a life that wasn’t his own. His clan of assistants, always so willing, so eager to help were also at risk. If only the man kept out of it, left it to people who knew what they were doing. Let out a rush of breath, frustration escaping, an outlet for his emotions, his growing anger. 

A drop of rain on his face, the weather quickly turning. Placed his hat on his head, tugging it into place, the brim not enough to keep the rain from his face. Turned around to look at the front door of Atwood’s cottage. Expression morphing into one of confusion, Sullivan at a loss as to why Brown was yet to show himself; the priest definitely acting out of character. He wasn’t going to worry about it, grateful to have the opportunity to investigate a crime without Brown’s interference. 

Hesitated when his thoughts returned to the priest’s lack of enthusiasm when it came to interfering. He could feel the explanation hanging onto the edge of his subconscious, the reason not yet ready to reveal itself. Knew the priest would have seen the evidence. Knew Brown would have come to the same conclusion; Mrs. Atwood already deceased for more than twelve hours, the smell an indication she had lain there for too long, possible her husband had kept his distance, not taking care of his wife’s medical requirements. No, the priest would know enough to continue, to ask the appropriate questions but why was he not . . .

“Sir?”

A touch of impatience. “Coming, sergeant.”

Sullivan moved toward the police vehicle, stopped when he caught movement in the shadows surrounding a large oak tree, its branches still snapping against Elizabeth Atwood’s bedroom window. Body filling with tension, adrenaline already pumping through his veins, he stepped into the street, turning to face the person now approaching. 

Relaxed when he saw the female form, curves in all the appropriate places. She wore a dark coat, the material curled around her waist, her hips. Dragging his gaze upward, a difficult effort to return to his normal state of chivalrous behaviour, Sullivan noticed the scarf embracing her skull, hair tucked away. Pulled forward, the scarf hid most of her features. She walked up to him, past him, words spoken, her voice snatched away by the wind, but Sullivan heard enough. 

“Follow me . . . discreetly. Please.” 

Felt like she had just propositioned him.

A flush of embarrassment in his cheeks. 

Turned his head, unsure if he should do what she asked. Watched as her direction of movement snapped to the left, her form disappearing behind a hedge thick with leaves. A moment later she reappeared, waved a hand, motioning in a frantic manner for him to join her.

Still felt like a proposition.

Decided . . . what the hell, if she tried anything . . . her arrest would be his physical defence. 

A quick glance back at his sergeant, Goodfellow wearing the bright grin of a conspirator, as though they were in this together, waiting for Sullivan to invite him to take part in a romantic interlude with a female paramour. Grimacing in disgust, Sullivan said, “Go and stay with the body, sergeant, there’s a good fellow . . .” Walked away, feet heavy with anger, his footsteps echoing in the wind. 

Keeping his distance, an area of safety created, Sullivan moved into a position where he could see the woman. Squinting, a quick glance. Once satisfied the woman wasn’t in a compromising position, he stepped closer.

She spoke without introduction. “Is she dead?”

Wasn’t about to reveal he knew who she was referring to. Tilted his head, a slight angle. “Is who dead?”

“I’ve been told you’re not as stupid as you look, Inspector, so please, don’t pretend you are.”

Certain he’d just been insulted.

“Yes, Mrs. Atwood is dead.”

“Have you arrested her husband?”

“Who are you?”

She let out a sigh of frustration, the sound dramatic, irritating. It was obvious she was quickly losing patience. “It’s Miss. Anonymous to you, Inspector.”

With a curl of his lip, not at all impressed with her attitude, Sullivan removed his notebook and pen. Made an obvious point of writing it down . . . “Miss. Anonymous . . . how do you spell that . . . no wait. I think I can guess.”

She removed her scarf, a pretty face revealed, her lips painted with red lipstick. More than a few drops of rain, her hair quickly becoming damp. “Sarcastic and handsome.”

“Are you a friend of the Atwood’s or a neighbour?”

“Neither. And there is no sense in speaking with their neighbours, Inspector, they’re too afraid of Atwood to tell you anything.”

Returned to his notebook, adding more notes. “Miss. Anonymous, neighbour to the Atwood’s.”

“Sarcastic, handsome and smart.”

Almost rolled his eyes . . . almost. Maintained a semblance of control. “Do you have some information you want to provide or is this something else?”

“Don’t think too highly of yourself, Inspector,” said Miss. Anonymous. “I have information.”

“Then by all means,” said Sullivan, holding notebook and pen at the ready . . . just in case Miss. Anonymous had something worthwhile to say. “I’m listening.”

“Elizabeth Atwood may have been a sickly woman, Inspector, but it wasn’t her illness that killed her.”

“And you know this because . . .”

“Everyone knows it. It’s all over the street. All of Kembleford will know by morning.”

“Yes,” said Sullivan. “Gossip does travel fast in Kembleford.”

“You’ve got some of the best gossips in Kembleford here, Inspector. You should use them. I’m sure they’d be happy to talk to you. They gossip because they’re lonely, you see.”

“Right.” Lifted his head, a light splatter of rain on his face. Quickly lowered his head. She was smiling at him. Felt uncomfortable. She had him on the wrong foot, his balance of confidence and authority broken. Tried to regain some sort of control. “Any suggestions?”

Her smile grew. Along with his embarrassment. “I don’t mean . . . that’s not . . .” A breath of acceptance; he was acting the fool. A sudden need to explain himself. “There are rumours about Mr. and Mrs. Atwood and I need to confirm if they’re true or false.”

“That’s why I suggested you listen to local gossip.”

His shoulders slumped. 

Not as stupid as you look, she’d said. 

Certain, at this moment, he was looking very stupid.

“Mrs. McCarthy is your best bet.”

Pursed his lips. “Of course she is.”

A front door slammed shut, the noise loud. Miss. Anonymous flinched, tucking herself closer to the hedge. Sullivan stood up onto the tips of his shoes, glanced over the hedge. Father Brown was walking away from the cottage, the opposite direction, his umbrella up, protection from the rain; their secret meeting safe, no need to worry about discovery.

“Just Father Brown,” said Sullivan.

Eyes wide, a hint of fear covering her features. “I don’t want Albert Atwood to know I’m talking to you, Inspector.”

Understood, comprehension not difficult to find. “You’re afraid of him.”

“Of course, I bloody am.”

“Then the rumours aren’t true?”

“That depends on which rumour you’re talking about.”

“The rumour that Albert Atwood is a man who has a nervous nature.”

“That one is true.”

“So, you think a fearful man killed his wife.” 

She moved closer, too close, her left hand reaching out, fingers gripping his forearm. “Even a man with a nervous nature can lose his temper, Inspector.”

He nodded, very aware of what someone like Albert Atwood was capable of doing. He wasn’t sure in this particular case. There was no sign of physical damage to the body. If Atwood had lost his temper, struck out, there would have been injuries . . . bruises, cuts, a fatal wound. No, if Atwood had murdered his wife, it was a deliberate act. Another weapon used; poison an obvious option.

“And you base this assumption on . . .”

“Rumours, Inspector,” said Miss. Anonymous, her grip increasing before letting go. 

About to ask another question, Sullivan left alone when the woman rushed off, a fast movement, quickly disappearing into the darkness. Took a step to follow her . . . changed his mind. Stayed in place, thoughts tumbling through his mind. It was a start, an anonymous tip, someone else suspicious of Mrs. Atwood’s death. Suspicions based on rumours.

Rumours always start with a speck of truth. That’s what the priest had said.

Not enough for an arrest warrant but it was something keeping him on what he knew was the right path except Sullivan didn’t want to gossip with Mrs. McCarthy, didn’t want to become part of that circle. He had used informants in the city, both men and women. Even trusted some of them, their information always based on fact and truth; not gossip. However, he needed to know more about the rumours, to separate truth from fiction. He needed to know if the rumours about Mrs. Atwood were true. It wouldn't make a difference if they were. A domineering wife, no matter how vicious, was not a reasonable excuse to commit murder.

No choice.

In the morning, a visit with Mrs. McCarthy was required.

An expression of irritation crossed his features.

But not before he paid a visit to Doctor Hartford.


	2. Chapter 2

Inspector Sullivan’s appearance went unnoticed, the reception desk void of a secretary, no one to greet him, to offer assistance and point him in the right direction. Removing his hat, he snapped his right wrist, an arterial spray of rainwater falling from its brim across the wooden floorboards. The silence was overwhelming, the soft patter of rain on the roof the only sound. Sullivan frowned, the people of Cotswold were keeping their distance from Doctor Hartford, the rumours believed. Couldn’t say he was disappointed.

He made his way through the waiting room, past the empty chairs, stopping at the reception desk. Set in the middle of the desk was a large notebook, a fountain pen, a small jar of ink and an ink blotter. On the side of the desk, a black telephone, silent. A small bell with a hand printed sign . . . ‘ring if unattended’. Ignoring the bell, Sullivan opened the notebook. On the first page, in large letters, was the word, ‘Appointments’. Flicking through the pages, he saw only emptiness, the pages blank. No notations, no appointments for Elizabeth Atwood or anyone else. Had Atwood been lying? Nothing here to suggest his wife had been a patient of Hartford. Possible it was a new appointment book, the old one filed away. 

Closed the book. Stepped around the desk, his intention to search . . . there were no drawers, nothing to investigate. Time to move on. Sullivan made his way to the closest door, hesitated. Placed his ear against the door, straining to hear any indication that someone was home. More silence. Glanced back at the open front door, an invitation . . . someone had to be here. He opened the door, stepped through, gaze looking to his right, then left. Something pulled him to the right, Sullivan following his instincts.

Doctor Hartford’s consulting rooms were immaculate, sterile . . . empty. The rooms lacked humanity, a touch of care, of attendance. Everything untouched, of no use to a doctor without patients. At the end of the hall, another open door, Sullivan expecting to find a repeat of the other rooms, instead he found an office, Doctor Hartford sitting behind a desk, his head down, an open magazine in front of him. A moment of surprise and confusion; he’d expected to find Father Brown already in attendance but the priest wasn’t present. Emotions turning to one of gratitude, Sullivan stepped into the room. Waited, his gaze, his mind taking notice of everything.

The elaborate design of the oak desk was too much, the style too expensive. It set the man apart, giving an impression he was more interested in the payment of bills rather than the care of his patients. In front of the desk, two simple chairs, their design clashing with the larger piece of furniture. A large window behind the desk and the man, the view too nice to ignore but for some unknown reason, Hartford had his back to it, his patients getting the benefit of the view; maybe that was the point. A row of filing cabinets sat along the left side of the room. Nothing else of interest, Sullivan turned his gaze back to Hartford.

It took too long for Hartford to notice him, Sullivan shifting his stance. A brush of material, his coat creating a sound loud enough to gain the Doctor’s attention. 

Doctor Hartford looked up in surprise . . . smiled. Eager anticipation. “I won’t say no to a walk-in patient.”

Sullivan looked forward to the man’s disappointment. “Inspector Sullivan. I’m here to talk to you about Mrs. Atwood.”

Hartford leaned back, his shoulders slumping, his expression revealing too much, so sad, so disappointed. Sullivan felt a tinge of regret; the emotion only lasting a moment, replaced with a feeling of satisfaction. Hartford closed the magazine, the cover telling Sullivan the man wasn’t trying to improve his knowledge of medicine. 

“I’m sorry, Inspector, I’m afraid I can’t talk to you about Mrs. Atwood. Patient confidentiality.” 

“Did your lawyer teach you that, Mr. Hartford?”

“It’s Doctor Hartford.”

His slip intentional, Sullivan nodded. “As you’re well aware . . . Doctor, Mrs. Atwood is dead. I suggest you cooperate--”

“There’s nothing to say, Inspector.”

“Mr. Atwood said you were his wife’s doctor,” said Sullivan. “Is that true?”

“Yes. She was a very ill woman.”

“I would like to see her medical file.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.”

“You do have records of your consultations with Mrs. Atwood?”

“Yes, but I can’t allow you to see them.”

“Because of patient confidentiality?”

“Yes.”

“I’m treating Mrs. Atwood’s death as suspicious,” said Sullivan as he moved closer to one of the empty chairs. “I trust that you wouldn’t want to be a part of an investigation into a patient’s death for a second time . . . Doctor.”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to, Inspector.”

Sullivan stayed silent, staring at the man sitting in front of him, trying to see the man from the past, to compare this person with the man accused of allowing a child to die. Nothing proven, the malpractice suit failing to succeed, to bring justice to the child’s family. All circumstantial but Sullivan, taking part in the original investigation still held a copy of the final report. Able to read between the lines, he knew what had occurred, frustrated and angry they hadn’t been able to prove incompetence. Began to have doubts about Albert Atwood. Had Hartford made the same mistakes? Had he been so elusive in the care of his patient that it resulted in Mrs. Atwood’s death?

Two avenues of inquiry.

Hartford hadn’t changed too much, his hair beginning to grey, a loss of weight, a few extra lines on his face. His eyes were clear . . . too clear . . . no feelings of guilt or remorse; obvious Hartford was able to sleep at nights. Maybe he could change that . . .

“You don’t remember me. Do you, Doctor Hartford?” said Sullivan.

Hartford frowned, a closer look. Shook his head. “Should I?”

“Sally Emerson. I was one of the officers investigating her death. We met on several occasions during our investigation.”

Hartford’s shocked expression a telling sign. “Called you in from the city, did they?”

“No, I’m stationed here in Kembleford. A bit of bad luck on your part, I would say.”

Hartford stared back at Sullivan.

“Now, do I really need to obtain a court order, Doctor Hartford? I’m sure the last thing you need is a horde of uniformed officers traipsing through your consulting rooms,” said Sullivan, smiling. “Bad for business. Not that you have any patients . . . ”

A rapid change of emotion, his eyes glazing over with anger . . . with hatred. “Yes, I remember you now. So, you finally managed to get out from under your old man’s domineering influence . . . or should I say his fists.”

A verbal punch thrown, the words creating a pinch of pain, his chest tight. Memories flooded his thoughts, taking control for a brief, painful moment. How he managed to keep his expression neutral he didn’t know. Remaining in control of his emotions, Sullivan stared back, gaze balanced . . . 

“You’ve been in Cotswold for two months now. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice me in passing? I noticed you. Did you know I was here when you made the decision to take up practice in Kembleford? No, of course not. You wouldn’t be so stupid to move to Cotswold if you knew the man in charge of Kembleford police was a detective inspector still intent on gaining justice for Sally Emerson.”

Hartford stood up, an abrupt movement. He moved away from the desk toward the filing cabinets. Keeping his back to Sullivan, anger controlling his movements, Hartford snapped open the drawer marked ‘A-D’. He pulled out a single file thick with paper, the only file in the drawer and returned to his desk. Dropping down into his chair, he tossed the file onto the desk, its contents escaping.

“This is continual harassment! I’m going to call my lawyer.”

“It’s an investigation,” said Sullivan. “And by all means, Doctor, call your lawyer. You might need him.”

“I had nothing to do with her death.”

“That was your reasoning the last time a patient in your care died under suspicious circumstances. However, we both know what really happened to young Sally. It was . . . disturbing that we couldn’t prove anything against you.”

“You couldn’t prove anything because I wasn’t responsible for what happened to her.”

Sullivan hummed, the sound voicing his disagreement. Sat down in one of the chairs facing Hartford and dropped his hat onto the desk. Reaching forward, he gathered the contents of the file together, an organised approach and pulled it closer to his side of the desk. Opened the file. A quick glance, turning the pages over . . . a picture quickly painted.

Looking up, Sullivan said, “Heart disease?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re sure of that?”

“I am a doctor.”

“Not a very good one,” said Sullivan as he continued to look through the file. The notes specific, detailed. “You couldn’t determine a cause of death. Why is that?”

Hartford looked away, his gaze intentionally held somewhere else for a few tense moments before looking back. “I’m not a coroner . . . Inspector.”

“It says here, you’ve been treating Mrs. Atwood for heart disease since you arrived in Cotswold and yet you didn’t determine her cause of death to be heart failure. Did you suspect something else? Foul play perhaps?”

“I told you--”

“Yes,” said Sullivan, looking up at Hartford, “you’re not a coroner. Mr. Atwood said his wife’s death was expected. Expected by you or Mr. Atwood?”

Hartford placed his hands on his desk, fingers gripped in a tight embrace, the knuckles turning white. “Her heart was bound to give up sooner or later.”

“So, heart failure?”

“It’s possible.”

Sullivan stared at Hartford, looking for a reaction. “Not to worry . . . Doctor, our coroner will determine a cause of death.”

“You’re doing a post mortem?”

“Yes, I’m investigating her death.”

“Why?”

“Her death is suspicious.”

“Why is it suspicious?”

“Is Mr. Atwood paying you to falsify the cause of death?”

A subtle reaction, Hartford flinching. “What? No, of course he isn’t. Besides, as you keep mentioning, I didn’t give a cause of death.”

“When was the last time you saw Mrs. Atwood?”

Lowered his head. In guilt or shame, Sullivan wasn’t sure. “I saw her the night before last. About seven.”

Surprised by the honest answer, Sullivan took a moment to respond. “What was her condition?”

“Actually, she was fine . . . well, as fine as she could be considering her chronic condition.”

“Then why were you there?”

“Said she hadn’t been able to sleep.”

“Did she say why?”

“No, only that she couldn’t sleep.”

“Did you examine her?”

“I did,” said Hartford, looking back up at Sullivan. “Physically she was fine. She--”

Sullivan held up a hand to stop him. “Before you go on, doctor, please remember the post mortem will reveal if she sustained any injuries before her death.”

“I do remember, Inspector. When I examined her before and after her death there were no injuries.”

“Did you prescribe anything to help her sleep?”

“I gave her an injection of morphine.”

“Morphine?” said Sullivan. “The same drugged that killed Sally Emerson. Strange you continue to use that particular drug.”

“It was all I had.”

A change of direction, circling back to a previous question. “Did you tell Mr. Atwood you would falsify the cause of death if he paid you a sum of money?”

“No.”

“Are you blackmailing Mr. Atwood? Demanding money to keep her cause of death quiet?” said Sullivan nodding down at the file sitting patiently on his lap.

“No.”

“You’ve done it before.”

“I learnt my lesson.”

“I find that very hard to believe, doctor.”

.  
.  
.

Sullivan stepped out into the rain, tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Took a moment . . . he needed a moment. Heart still pounding, his chest still pinching with pain. It had been a shock, so unaware Hartford had known about his relationship with his father. Had it been a lie when Hartford had said he didn’t remember him. The man had thrown him off balance . . . 

The rain stung his face as he allowed it to wash away his memories. It was a lifetime ago, no need to dwell . . . to remember. It was over. He couldn’t forget. Never would. Lowered his head. Released a long, slow breath, a sigh of frustration, of regret. He should have done more, hindsight a nasty thing. Shook his head, drops of water thrown in separate directions. It was over. He was building a life here, starting fresh. Kembleford not his first choice, transferred to a location he didn’t request but he refused to relent, he had to make an effort, create something that would make him feel proud. Something that would make it all worthwhile.

Walk away. 

Tucking Elizabeth Atwood’s file under his coat, Sullivan walked away. The church presbytery wasn’t far, the walk an opportunity to clear his head . . . thunder cracked in the distance, Sullivan flinching with surprise. His movements now sluggish, he stopped, leaned back against the low stone wall surrounding Hartford’s consulting rooms. The previous moment taken not enough to calm his anger, not enough time to allow the memories to dissipate. His limbs felt weak with anger, with disappointment . . . with guilt. Found it hard to breathe.

Time passed, a slow movement, Sullivan’s gaze wandering, searching for something to occupy his thoughts, to distract. Knew Mrs. McCarthy would be the perfect remedy but he wasn’t quite ready to face Father Brown. There was an enigma, so certain he would have found Brown discussing the case with Hartford, asking questions, deducing . . . meddling. Curious, Sullivan wanted to ask the Father why he wasn’t involving himself in the investigation but Sullivan knew he wouldn’t like the answer. Felt a twinge of understanding, of knowledge . . . the explanation still out of his reach. Left it alone.

Looked to his right, the church tall in the distance. Now or never. He needed to confirm the rumours. Needed to know if Mrs. Atwood was as bad as her husband claimed she was; still not a good reason, an excuse to kill your wife. He had to know if Atwood was as nervous as others alleged. Either way, he would need to be careful, even an anxious man could be volatile. Atwood had shown anger the previous evening, shown he was capable, ready to snap, to release his anger after a Kembleford detective inspector voiced a subtle accusation.

Two men, both large in stature, moved toward him, their collars turned up against the rain, hats pulled low over their faces. Sullivan looked away, too engrossed in his own thoughts to take much notice. No choice when they stopped in front of him, too close, his gaze lifting . . .

They had the look of hard men, a broken nose, scaring; the side effects of more than one physical altercation. Realisation dawning; that’s what this was, a prelude to a fight. Their bodies twitching, keen for a confrontation, their weight shifting, balance confident. He didn’t understand the why. 

“Are you that copper bloke?”

Frowned. Had he been wrong in his assumption, the two men not looking for a fight but something else? Another anonymous tip? A couple of locals who wanted to give information? No. He could already tell this was all wrong. They were making a confirmation. They wanted to make sure they had the right man. He could deny his identity, didn’t think it would make a difference. Stood up, not enough room to prepare his defence.

A flash of movement, too quick to follow. A heavy blow to the side of his face, his head thrown to the side, felt the skin over his left cheek tear, blood escaping, the pain sharp, a gasp of surprise released. The sound of sheets of paper fluttering, falling, his grip on Mrs. Atwood’s file lost . . .

A hand around his throat, forcing him back, his spine pressing painfully against the wall. The embrace strong, long fingers digging deep into his flesh. Knew there would be bruising. The man leaned in toward Sullivan, his hold increasing. His breath taken from him, Sullivan reacted. He struck out, right fist slamming into the chest of the man standing directly in front of him; experience told him a punch to the heart would drop any man.

It did. The man let go, stumbled back, right hand clutching at his chest, his features full of pain and fear. 

Sullivan turned his attention to the second man . . . too late. Another strike to the side of his face, more strength used, Sullivan collapsing beneath the weight of the blow, body hitting the ground with a painful grunt. Darkness sought the edges of his vision . . . words drifting into his subconscious.

“Stay out of it! Liz Atwood got what she deserved.”

A warning given.

Words confirming his suspicions of foul play.

A darkness approaching . . .

.  
.  
.

“Inspector Sullivan?”

A gentle prod against his shoulder, more forceful when he didn’t make an immediate response. Time taken to access his condition; he felt numb, detached, mind elsewhere. His head ached, an intrusive encirclement of pain spreading out from his left cheek. His limbs felt heavy, weak . . . a bad taste in his mouth. Memory faulty, he wasn’t confident in what had happened. An image of shadows, of movement . . . grimaced, a sharp bite of pain through the left side of his face.

Another nudge, a hint of violence used. “Inspector!”

Flicked his eyes open in annoyance. A familiar face in front him, Sullivan pulling away in surprise. The sudden movement not a very good idea, his center of gravity tilting, a sickening angle. Sullivan stilled his movements, closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. An injury obtained, he would have to be more careful, move with much more consideration . . .

“Be careful, Inspector,” said Hartford, reaching toward Sullivan, hands open, ready to take control. “You must have fallen. Hit your head on the wall. Nasty looking injury you have there.”

Too many words, not enough time to make sense of them, one particular word catching and keeping his attention; fallen. He couldn’t have fallen, he was sure of that, not clumsy by nature, sure-footed. Opened his eyes. Hartford was still too close, Sullivan uncomfortable with the close proximity. “Step back please, doctor.”

With reluctance, Hartford nodded in acceptance, did as requested, moving back, creating room. 

Palms against the ground, elbows locking, Sullivan pushed himself into an upright position with the care his body required. A successful result. The vertigo easing, the feeling unwilling to linger, Sullivan grateful. An accompanying lack of nausea told him his injury wasn’t serious. Leaned back against the wall and tried to remember what had occurred in the last few minutes, certain he hadn’t lain on the ground any longer, his clothes not yet drenched from the rain. It all came back in a sudden rush. Warned off the Atwood case; not the first time something like this had happened. 

His own fault, questioning Hartford on his own had been a mistake, not wanting another officer there with him; he didn’t want anyone else to know of his knowledge of the doctor’s past. Grimaced at the thought, pain stinging his left cheek. He lifted a hand, damp fingers probing the injury . . . about to snatch his hand away, the pain too sharp when fingers wrapped around his wrist, pulling his hand down.

“Don’t touch it, Inspector. Your hands are dirty. You don’t want an infection.”

Blood on the tips of his pale fingers. Closed his eyes, his head falling back, a painful thump against the wall. Very inconsiderate. Rain fell onto his face, rinsing the blood from his skin. Snapped his eyes open when Hartford set his hat back on his head, unsteady hands pulling it down tight. Recognised Hartford’s aggressive actions.

“You don’t want it getting wet either.”

Sullivan stared back at Hartford, an accusation already forming, words catching in the back of his throat when he realised Hartford couldn’t be responsible. Hartford wasn’t the driving force behind the warning, the confrontation occurring only minutes after he’d left the man’s office, not enough time for Hartford to make contact, to employ someone willing to commit a physical assault against a police officer. 

Albert Atwood. Too much of a coward to do it himself, relying on others, paying others to deliver his warning. No proof but he could remember the faces of the two men. If he saw them again, an arrest made, lawful revenge taken. A small voice in the back of his mind, knew if he did see them again, it would be under the same circumstances. Once he reached the presbytery, he would make a phone call, stupidity on his part if he continued alone, Goodfellow a reliable source of protection, two against two better odds.

“Come back inside,” said Hartford, reaching forward once more. “I can take care of that.”

Wasn’t sure he wanted to do that, Hartford didn’t exactly come with glowing recommendations. Wasn’t sure if the man would go out of his way to cause more injury; if stitches were required . . . “I was heading to the presbytery. I can take care of it there.”

“Nonsense,” said Hartford, smiling, the expression genuine, full of natural humour. “I don’t think Mrs. McCarthy would be too happy to have you bleeding all over Father Brown’s rooms.”

Of course, Hartford was right, each side of the solution as bad as the other: an incompetent doctor or Mrs. McCarthy. Sullivan wasn’t sure if Mrs. McCarthy would take control, insisting on cleaning his injury for him or if she would simply refuse him entry, telling him to come back when he’d cleaned himself up. Thought of the gossip, Mrs. McCarthy spreading a story, the narration distorted, rumours growing in exaggeration; the last thing he wanted.

Nodding in agreement, hoping he wouldn’t regret it, Sullivan allowed Hartford to help him up, his balance taking a moment longer to catch up. Waited to see if his legs could sustain his weight, his headache. Injury failing to take him back down, his limbs steady, Sullivan began to make his way back to Hartford’s consulting rooms, the doctor taking the lead . . . remembered Elizabeth Atwood’s file. Paused, turning to look back, gaze searching the ground. The file was gone, taken. 

Looking back at Hartford, Sullivan said, “Did you take Elizabeth Atwood’s file?”

“No,” said Hartford, pausing to look back over his shoulder, eyebrows drawn downward, a confused expression. “You took it. Don’t you remember? Maybe you hit your head harder than I first--”

“I didn’t hit my head.”

“I’m sorry?”

Repeated his statement. “I didn’t hit my head.”

Hartford made his way back to Sullivan. Leaning in he tried to look into Sullivan’s eyes. Frowned. “You did fall over . . . didn’t you?”

“No,” said Sullivan, stepping away from the intense scrutiny.

“Someone did this to you?”

Kept his thoughts to himself.

“Are you suggesting I’m responsible for this?”

“Not you, doctor,” said Sullivan. “Albert Atwood. I’ve been warned off.”

Hartford shook his head. “Albert wouldn’t do something like that. He doesn’t have the courage.”

“He didn’t do it.”

“You’re confused, Inspector. You’ve hit your head.”

Sullivan looked back over his shoulder, toward the church, the presbytery. Maybe he should . . .

“It’ll only take a few minutes,” said Hartford, moving back, taking Sullivan’s right elbow and pulling him forward. “You need a decent examination, make sure you haven’t suffered a concussion.”

He didn’t have a concussion, too familiar with the symptoms of a head injury. Felt the need to repeat himself, to reassure the doctor that he was fine. He wasn’t confused. His memory was still intact, only taking a short time to return. He didn’t feel sick, dizzy . . . he just . . . Pulled his arm from Hartford’s grip. “I don’t have a concussion. I didn’t hit my head.”

“You don’t have to hit your head, Inspector. A single punch can be just as devastating as a blow to the head.”

Returned his gaze to the church . . .

“I know you don’t trust me, Inspector, but that cut needs to be taken care of. If you’re not willing to allow me to do it, you need to take yourself to someone you can trust. Another doctor. The hospital. Get yourself seen--”

“No,” said Sullivan, coming to a decision. “No. It’s fine.”

“Inspector, I don’t--”

Sullivan held up his hand. “I don’t trust you, but where can you go wrong with a cut.”

That smile again. “Inspector, I do believe you’re worried my care will result in your untimely death.”

He couldn’t let that go. “You’re right, doctor, I am worried.”

“No need to be, Inspector,” said Hartford, still smiling. “From what I can see, you don’t need stitches. I’ll just clean it and cover it up. As you said, I can’t go wrong with a task as simple as that.”

Once back inside Hartford’s consulting rooms, Sullivan removed his hat, its brim wet through. He felt cold, an unfamiliar chill climbing the length of his spine. Put it down to the weather. No reason yet to be concerned. He’d had worse. Part of the job, not everyone willing to accept accusations, the threat of arrest. Hardened criminals, devoid of fear, ready to fight back, always ready to inflict pain and injury on a detective inspector. Everyone so much more relaxed in the country, even the criminals . . .

“There’s a bathroom there,” said Hartford, pointing to a closed door. “Why don’t you clean yourself up while I get my bag? I’ll be in my office when you’re done.”

Sullivan watched as Hartford moved away, toward one of the consulting rooms. When the man disappeared into the room, Sullivan turned away, stepped up to the closed door. Reached out to open it, his hand, his fingers trembling, the chill spreading into his limbs. Felt a trickle of rainwater roll down his back, his body shivering at the touch. Opened the door and stepped into a large open bathroom. Caught sight of himself in the large mirror set above an even larger sink.

Moving closer to the sink, the mirror, Sullivan angled his head to the side for a better view. It didn’t look as bad as it felt. Already bruising, the cut was small, Hartford correct, no need for stitches. He reached upward, toward the injury, fingers still shaking. Closed his fist, an angry breath released. Closed his eyes in understanding. His body was reacting to the assault, a delayed reaction. A natural response, no need to feel concerned, knowing it would pass. It always did.

Dropping his hat onto the sink, Sullivan opened his eyes, leaned forward and rested his weight on his arms, hands gripping the edge of the sink. Lowered his head, closed his eyes once more. A sudden weakness in his knees, a need to sit down but he knew if he did relax, sit down, he would find it too difficult to get back up. Somewhere else, he would listen to his body’s needs. Not here though, not with Hartford so close. Felt a sudden urge to rush to the presbytery, hopeful Mrs. McCarthy would sit him down in front of a roaring fire with a cup of hot tea in one hand and a strawberry scone in the other. Felt the need to allow someone else to take care of him for a change.

No. He was a grown man. A detective inspector. Quite capable of taking care of his own needs. Opened his eyes, stood up straight. Another quick glance at the cut on the side of his face, suddenly looking forward to another run-in with the two men responsible. No intention of causing them physical harm but it would be very satisfying to place them in handcuffs. 

Another look at his reflection, gaze travelling downward. Reached up and pulled the collar of his shirt away from his neck for a better view. The bruising vivid, red; would be hard to hide when the colours of bruising were in full bloom. Swallowed, feeling a twinge of pain he hadn’t recognised earlier. Knew the pain would only get worse. 

Turned on the tap, hot water splashing into the sink. Using his handkerchief, Sullivan cleaned his face as best as he could. The injury had already stopped bleeding, the cut not deep enough. When finished he held the handkerchief under the tap before pressing it against the back of his neck. A sudden explosion of heat, a welcomed relief, the intense chill conceding defeat. Aware he was only delaying the inevitable, best to get it over with; still not sure, he wanted a debauched doctor to take care of a minor injury. Confused as to why he had allowed the man to convince him otherwise. Something wasn’t right, too easy for Hartford to persuade him to follow him back into his consulting rooms, now certain Hartford was manipulating a detective inspector’s situation, his injury . . .

Stared back at his reflection. “You’ve no one but yourself to blame if something goes amiss.” 

Lowered his gaze. The injury too small, the bruising spreading, a circular shape of deepening reds and purples. Decided he had no need of a doctor, especially a doctor of Hartford’s calibre, the man’s lack of competence more of a hindrance than helpful. He would make his excuses, show himself out, continue with the investigation.

Wrung out the handkerchief in the sink and placed it back into a coat pocket. Snatched his hat off the sink, turned away from his reflection and walked out of the bathroom. A hurried tone, a rushed conversation, Hartford’s voice stopping Sullivan. A moment to determine the direction of the man’s voice. Hartford wasn’t in his office, his location the reception room. 

Sullivan moved slowly, his steps quiet. Stopped outside the closed doorway, Hartford wanting privacy. Leaning close, his right ear brushing against the door, Sullivan listened, slightly uncomfortable at the intrusion. The words muted, unrecognisable. Ready to give up and step away . . .

A raised tone. “He’s fine. If you wanted to deter him from the investigation you did a poor job of it.”

A flush of anger, Sullivan resisting the urge to rush into the room, to confront Hartford. Question him as to the identity of the person on the other end of the conversation. Held his breath, calmed his anger. Listened for any admission, of further intent.

“No. Threats won’t work. I’ve dealt with him before. He’s obstinate. If you want him to back off . . . He’s not stupid. He won’t go anywhere alone, not now . . . If you think that’s best . . . No, I--” An abrupt end to the conversation.

Nothing said to implicate Atwood. A moment to think. Did he want Hartford to know he’d overheard part of the conversation? Enough information given to conclude there would be more altercations, more threats, Atwood not yet willing to give up. It would be a mistake, Hartford relaying Sullivan’s gained knowledge back to Atwood. As a result, Atwood would take a step back; detach his involvement from the situation. Left alone, Atwood would become over confident, reveal his part in the physical assault of a detective inspector . . . a chance he would reveal his part in his wife’s death, Sullivan now certain Elizabeth Atwood was murdered.

Moved away from the door. Enough distance created, Sullivan walked back, his steps deliberate, loud. The reception door snapped open, Hartford revealing himself, his expression full of surprise. Words stumbled out of his mouth. “I’m sorry, Inspector. I had to make a phone call. Cancel an appointment. If you’re ready--”

“No need, doctor,” said Sullivan, his lies more confident. “I had the vague recollection I was supposed to be at the presbytery for a reason. I’m supposed to meet Sergeant Goodfellow. I fear I’m running late.”

Hartford frowned, about to say something. Stopped in time. Reconsidered. Not ready to argue, to convince Sullivan to stay, a change of mind, Hartford said, “Of course, Inspector. If you have any concerns about your injury please come back.”

“I’ll see myself out, doctor,” said Sullivan, pushing past Hartford and moving into the reception room. The thought of having his back to Hartford . . . resisted the urge to turn around, to walk backward. Shoulders tense, Sullivan kept moving, his pace steady, calm. Reached the safety of the open door to the outside. A lack of hesitation, he walked out into the rain, set his direction toward the presbytery. 

A release of breath. 

A feeling of relief . . .


	3. Chapter 3

Sullivan hesitated when he reached the front door of the presbytery. Removed his hat, shook the rain from the brim. Left his coat on, body not yet warm enough to remove the solid source of warmth. Proving a point, his body shivered, pain vibrating through his skull. Headache demanding attention, Sullivan pressed the fingers of his right hand against his forehead, a comforting gesture. 

Interrupted when the front door sprung open, a large, dark shadow looming over him. A flash of memory, still fresh . . . taken by surprise, Sullivan dropped his hand to his side and took a stumbling step back. Managed to correct his balance before he fell . . . 

Father Brown stepped out of the shadows.

A long, slow, deep breath. Let it out with a soft sigh, a sound of frustration. Grimaced with embarrassment. Lifted his chin, shifted his balance, his body language advertising his aversion to the man standing before him, an aversion grown from the priest’s constant interference in police matters. 

Except . . . 

He wasn’t meddling. Not in this case. Why? 

The explanation still elusive. Blamed his headache, the pain dull, unrelenting . . . pulled away from his misery when Brown spoke, his verbal reception hesitant. 

“Inspector?” said Father Brown, gaze narrowing with recognition and concern. “Always a pleasure.”

Sullivan convinced it wasn’t. Step forward, confidence returning. Decided to ask the man for an explanation, not a direct approach, working his way up to the question as he would when interviewing a witness or a . . . suspect. If he didn’t like the priest’s response . . . eventual regret, he would blame his injury, his headache . . . convince himself he wasn’t of sound mind when he’d made the decision to ask Brown why he wasn’t meddling. Paused. Considered changing his mind. Spoke before he could.

“Are you unwell, Father?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Inspector,” said Brown, quick to redirect the conversation back toward Sullivan. 

Experienced enough to recognise a diversion when he heard one, Sullivan continued on, even more determined to gain an explanation. 

“You look a little pale,” said Sullivan. 

“I’m sure I don’t look as pale as you, Inspector,” said Brown, raising a hand and pointing his forefinger, his aim accurate, a confident verbal shot. “That bruising on your face is spectacular and what is that on your neck . . . are those finger marks?”

“Not to worry, Father. I’ve just seen a doctor about it. Doctor Hartford in fact. Didn’t know what he was doing. Should have lost his licence years ago. You must know him. I’m sure you met him last night.”

“Of course,” said Father Brown as he shifted his gaze, turning his head away, too slow to hide an expression of guilt, features shutting down when he turned back to look at Sullivan.

“What did you think of the man?” said Sullivan.

“It would have been rude of me to ignore Albert’s needs to socialise with Doctor Hartford.”

“So unlike you, Father.”

“As you well know, Inspector, the people of my flock come first.”

Sullivan hummed. The sound short and to the point. Time to be direct. 

“You’re not meddling, Father. Why is that?”

“Why are you here, Inspector?”

“You didn’t answer my question--”

“Am I a suspect?”

“I only suspect you of . . .” An intentional pause. “Failing to meddle. There must be a reason. Normally you’re so . . . intrusive.”

Voice silent, Father Brown stared back at Sullivan.

Recognised the stubborn set of the man’s shoulders. Understood he wasn’t going to get an answer. “Not to worry, Father. I’m sure I’ll work it out.”

“I’m sure you will, Inspector . . . eventually.”

A low blow. 

“I would like to speak to Mrs. McCarthy.”

“May I ask why?”

“No.”

Invited in under obligation, Sullivan moved passed the priest and followed Brown’s verbal directions to the kitchen. Stopped in the doorway when he found himself under the intense scrutiny of Father Brown’s proverbial ‘flock’. Could feel the priest’s presence behind him. Movements slow, Sullivan moved into the room, stepped to the side. The silence thick, his entry almost expected, they stared at him, expressions of accusation. Had they heard the conversation between inspector and priest?

“Inspector! What have you done to yourself?” 

Mrs. McCarthy, her tone almost accusatory . . . always ready to point out the most obvious.

A glance toward Brown, a silent verbal request for help, the man keeping his gaze somewhere else. Pursed his lips, not surprised the priest was going to leave him to fight this battle alone. Remembered how he felt inside the bathroom of Hartford’s consulting rooms. Didn’t want to feel vulnerable in front of the people who seemed to dislike him most, sometimes, even more so than the criminals of Kembleford.

“It’s nothing, Mrs. McCarthy.”

“Well done, Inspector,” said Lady Felicia from her seat at the kitchen table. “Keep the gossip to a minimum.” 

Turned his gaze to Sid Carter, the man seated on the other side of the table. Waited for the insult. Nothing came, the suspected part-time criminal staring back at him with a look of disappointment and a shake of his head. They had heard. Pushing the sudden urge to defend himself to the side, Sullivan looked at Mrs. McCarthy.

“Mrs. McCarthy, I would like to speak to you,” said Sullivan. “In private.”

“Here or at the station?” said Sid, standing, pushing his chair back with an abrupt movement, his stance almost threatening.

A flare of anger. “I’ve already had one confrontation today, Mr. Carter. I am not in the mood for another.”

“It’s all right, Sid,” said Father Brown, waiting until the younger man returned to his seat. “I’m sure the Inspector isn’t here to arrest Mrs. McCarthy.”

A quiet breath, enough to calm his anger. If he spoke now . . . wasn't sure he could be polite in his request to . . . quickly lost all control of the situation, Mrs. McCarthy stepping in, her voice loud, insistent.

“What you need, Inspector,” said Mrs. McCarthy, coming toward him, a frontal attack, “is a nice cup of tea.”

Sid snorted his amusement. “That’s not what he needs.”

“Sid,” said Father Brown. “Please.”

As bad as he feared . . . almost as bad as he had silently hoped, putting up a meagre defence when Mrs. McCarthy reached him. Her small hand took his elbow and with a strength he didn’t know she had, she pulled him toward the kitchen table. About to push him down onto a chair next to Lady Felicia, she stopped, frowned in concern and began to pull his coat from his shoulders.

“You’re soaked through, Inspector. Take that coat off before you get a chill.”

“Mrs. McCarthy, there’s no need to--”

“Of course there is,” said Mrs. McCarthy, succeeding where Sullivan was struggling. Removed his coat, a show of expertise. Took his hat, pushed him down into the chair and threw his coat and hat to the side, over the edge of the table, an obvious disregard for the water dripping onto the floor. “Can’t have one of Kembleford’s best detective inspector’s coming down with a cold now can we.”

Frowned, a sputter of confusion. He was Kembleford’s only detective inspector.

Thought it was over. Felt safe . . . a hint of disappointment; confused as to why he felt the need to be coddled and by Mrs. McCarthy. Alone in Kembleford, a lack of companionship, of friends, no one to wipe his brow when he felt ill, no one to reassure his doubts, his fears . . . no one to . . . knew he was feeling sorry for himself. A slump of shoulders when he understood the cause of conflicting emotions; his past thrown into his present by a callous Hartford. Shook the unwelcome emotions . . . the loneliness from his mind. Pulled his body away when Mrs. McCarthy leaned in, her face so close. Turned his head away when he understood what she was doing. Caught Lady Felicia’s gaze. She smiled at him, a look of satisfaction, of enjoyment. Grimaced as he turned his head back, Mrs. McCarthy still so close. He could smell her perfume, a pleasant odour.

“A little camphor oil will take care of that, Inspector. Stay right there--”

Father Brown smiled. “Doctor Hartford has already seen to the Inspector’s injury, Mrs. McCarthy, so there really is no need to indulge the man.”

He would give the priest the victory, refusing to respond or deny the man’s accusations of indulgence. Settled back into a comfortable position when Mrs. McCarthy stepped away. Raised his hand to straighten a tie that didn’t need to be straightened, sure there was a hint of embarrassment in his cheeks. His concern validated when Sid Carter gave him a knowing look.

“Doctor Hartford,” said Mrs. McCarthy, her disgust evident in her tone, “is an incompetent fraud.” 

“I think we’re all well aware of what he is, Mrs. M,” said Brown.

“How he has managed to continue to practice medicine, I don’t know.” She looked down at Sullivan. “I’ve heard he was responsible for the death of a child. Gave her too much medicine.”

Failed to keep the surprise from his features. Hadn’t known the rumours about Hartford were so accurate.

“That’s hearsay, Mrs. M,” said Lady Felicia. “You really should stop listening to rumours.”

Made an effort. “If I could--”

“I do no such thing,” said Mrs. McCarthy, “Rumours are speculation and I don’t indulge myself with--”

Failed to keep his patience. “Enough! Please. If I could talk to Mrs. McCarthy alone and in private.”

“You can’t have both,” said Sid.

“Alone,” said Sullivan, shifting his gaze to look at the priest, “and without Father Brown listening at the door.”

“As if he would,” said Mrs. McCarthy. “The Father is a gentlemen and a scholar. Discreet to a fault.”

“I’m sure he is, Mrs. McCarthy, but this is an investigation and on occasion I have found Father Brown to be more than . . .” Stopped before the insult emerged, certain they would be less than impressed with his very descriptive profile of Father Brown. The man was more than discreet. When it came to revealing secrets, confessions, his mind was like a vault, unwilling to unlock, to reveal information given to him during confession.

Frowned, explanation so close he could feel it circling his consciousness, keeping enough distance to stop him from reaching out and touching it. So frustrating, not usually so slow to come to an understanding, normally able to clarify the facts, to put the pieces of the puzzle together to reveal the final picture in a more efficient manner. There had to be a reason, a justification as to why he couldn’t comprehend why Brown was suddenly so reluctant to meddle.

The fog began to lift, thoughts forming, becoming clearer, mind almost ready to inflict him with understanding . . .

“Is there something wrong, Inspector?” said Lady Felicia, leaning forward, her face turned toward him, an expression of confusion and a flicker of concern.

Recognising the importance of the information slowly revealing itself, Sullivan refused to look away from Brown, the man staring back at him. Concentrated, attempting to force the revelation forward . . . snatched away when Mrs. McCarthy placed her hand across his forehead, his line of sight to the priest now broken.

She leaned in, tutted in annoyance when he pulled his head away, his frustration palpable. “Please! Mrs. McCarthy. I’m fine. I don’t need . . .” His anger too strong, the woman not the cause; Mrs. McCarthy only offering comfort, a side effect of her concern. Knew he should be grateful and he was, Mrs. McCarthy giving him what he had wanted, taking a moment of indulgence . . . everything spinning out of his control.

Headache making a sudden increase, Sullivan lifted his hand to his head, fingers massaging his forehead. Perhaps he should have delayed his visit, made a formal announcement to assure that Mrs. McCarthy was alone or he could have simply relayed an invitation to meet him at the police station; Brown’s associates unable to attend a formal interview. Thought it best he apologise before things got out of hand . . . possibly already too late. 

“Mrs. McCarthy, I apologise. Your intentions are admirable and on any other occasion . . . at this time I do not require your attention.”

Placing a hand on his shoulder, Mrs. McCarthy said, “Apology accepted but I do hope you won’t refuse a cup of tea.”

Dropped his hand back into his lap, looked up at her and smiled. “Of course not.”

“I do believe the poor man has a headache,” said Lady Felicia, her gaze steady. “Mrs. M, does the Father have any Bex powders. Monty swears by them, Inspector. I’ve even managed to suffer a powder or two after an exuberant dinner party.”

Mrs. McCarthy began to move away. Hesitated, before leaning down toward Sullivan, invading his personal space once again. Her breath warm, she whispered, “She means an exuberant amount of alcohol.”

Not stupid, Sullivan remained silent.

“A polite hostess, Mrs. McCarthy,” said Lady Felicia. “Would have a cup of tea and a powder on the table in front of him already. I mean really, it’s obvious even to me the man is in pain.”

“I’m fine, Lady Felicia,” said Sullivan, the lie forming with ease. “It’s nothing. Really.”

“Looking at that,” said Sid, nodding toward Sullivan, “I’d say someone hit you pretty hard.”

Pursed his lips. He wasn’t getting anywhere. Would have to put his foot down and exert his authority. Remembered he had already tried that . . . these people never listened, too enthusiastic as aids to the priest's intrusive meddling, already causing an obstruction to a detective inspector’s investigation. He would have no more of it . . .

Father Brown stepped forward, back into Sullivan’s line of sight. “Is that what happened, Inspector? Did someone hit you?”

“What do you think he meant by confrontation, Father,” said Sid.

“Inspector?” said Brown, his tone of voice indicating he expected an answer.

Sullivan wasn’t going to give him one. “I’m not discussing this with you.”

“Who would do such a thing?” said Brown.

“Come now, Father,” said Sullivan. “You’re not a stupid man.”

Sid leaned forward, his smile a warning of what was to come. “Did some old lady throttle you with her handbag when you tried to help her cross the road?”

Narrowed his eyes. Level of patience dropping even further . . . 

Mrs. McCarthy glared at Sid. “I think a little respect is in order, young man.”

“I think we should leave the Inspector and Mrs. McCarthy alone,” said Brown, moving back to the door.

Sid leaned back in his chair, folded his arms. “I don’t.”

“I can move this conversation to the police station,” said Sullivan, staring back at Carter, gaze unflinching, so accustomed to a dislike of authority. Sid Carter an accurate example, always so willing to insult and disparage at every opportunity; his loyalty to Father Brown and his two leading ladies always bringing Carter to the priest’s defence. It grated on Sullivan’s patience, chipped away at his authority when Carter struck, giving his verbal insults in front of an audience. 

“There’s no need, Inspector,” said Father Brown. “I’m sure we’re all willing to cooperate with you in your investigation.”

Took a moment to look away, a slow release, his gaze finding Brown. “Are you?”

“To the best of our ability,” said Brown, turning his gaze away.

Let it go. Too impatient to take any further part in the priest’s games. Looked back at Carter. Raised an eyebrow, an invitation to rebuke Father Brown’s declaration of assistance. 

Carter stood up, pointed at Sullivan. “If you upset her . . .”

“Sid,” said Brown, a warning tone used.

Watched as they left the room, a little surprised Brown hadn’t been more insistent, the man’s manner a little troubling. Took a deep, calming breath, his agitation, his impatience . . . his anger, taking on a much calmer tone. These people pushed him to the edge, his anger resting on an unstable precipice. A loss of anger, of control, something he didn’t like or appreciate . . . so often reminded of his father. Lowered his gaze, an ache of emotion squeezing his chest. Damn Hartford for bringing it all back; the man causing more pain than the physical altercation. The effects lingering, haunting . . . felt his mind drifting, heading toward a time in his past he didn’t want to revisit . . .

“Inspector Sullivan.”

Mrs. McCarthy’s soft voice not enough to distract . . . more familiar voices invading, pushing the present away. Felt like he . . . a hand on his shoulder, a more insistent tone . . . mind snapping back, Sullivan lifted his gaze.

“Inspector? Are you sure you’re all right,” said Mrs. McCarthy, a frown of concern.

A slip of the tongue, words tumbling. “It hasn’t been a good day, Mrs. McCarthy.”

“Would you like to talk about it? I’m sure Father Brown would be willing to listen. He has a way with people.”

“No, thank you, Mrs. McCarthy,” said Sullivan, aware of his sudden anger, his disappointment. “If we could just get on with it, please. I’ve wasted enough time.”

Her features relaxing, Mrs. McCarthy, in an understanding tone, said,” I’m sorry, Inspector. I was under the assumption I would be the last person you would want to confide in, especially considering the rumours about my ability to gossip.”

“That’s why I’m here, Mrs. McCarthy,” said Sullivan. “And you’re incorrect. I do understand that if asked you can be very restrained. As discreet as Father Brown when it comes to the seal of the confessional.”

“You want to confide in me?”

“No, I want to gossip with you,” said Sullivan. “Mrs. McCarthy, I need you to indulge yourself in rumours about Albert and Elizabeth Atwood.”

“I’ll make a fresh pot of tea,” said Mrs. McCarthy. 

It didn’t take long, Mrs. McCarthy so skilled in the preparation of a pot of tea. Only a matter of minutes before she returned to the table with pot in hand, a plate of Rich Tea biscuits and two small white pills; knowledge or coincidence she was supplying him with his favourite biscuit he didn’t know. Decided not to ask, only creating embarrassment if it wasn’t a decision made with intent; grateful either way.

Asked something else instead. “No bex powders?”

“Father Brown does not swear by them,” said Mrs. McCarthy as she sat down next to him, quick to pour milk into an empty cup. “Now, as you well know, Inspector, I’m not one for gossip, but I’ll help in any way I can.”

Sullivan smiled. “You come highly recommended, Mrs. McCarthy.”

“Really!” An indignant tone. “I have no idea who would want to make such a slanderous allegation.”

She was exaggerating. They both knew it. “She claimed you were Kembleford’s best.”

“Did she now . . .”

Poured tea into the cup before placing it in front of him. She did know. A warmth of emotion spread through his chest, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Mrs. McCarthy so unassuming . . . how did she . . .

“How do you know?” said Sullivan, nodding toward the china cup.

She smiled at him. “It’s known through Kembleford that a particular detective inspector--”

Held up his hand, returned her smile and said, “I prefer to believe I’m still a man of mystery.”

“A mystery you are, Inspector. Now, what is it you would like to know about the Atwoods?”

“I need to separate truth from rumour,” said Sullivan, turning his upper body to face Mrs. McCarthy. “I know it’s hearsay but you must have spoken to someone who knew them. Someone who felt the need to talk. To divulge information. Someone who took an opportunity to relieve themselves of a burden.”

Understanding slammed into Sullivan, the explanation for Brown’s lack of interference slapping him across the face. How could he be so stupid? That damn seal of confession. Atwood had used it to its full advantage, confessing to the priest, relieving himself of his burden, his guilt . . . he had passed on information about his wife’s death, possibly giving incriminating evidence that would convict and hang the man.

“And what sort of information are you referring to, Inspector?”

Turned his head away from Mrs. McCarthy, twisting his upper body into an awkward and painful position, gaze staring at the closed door that led to Father Brown’s current location . . . in the words of Sid Carter, Sullivan wanted to throttle the priest. Damn his religion, his faith . . . his refusal to hand over information gained. How could the priest live with that sort of information? How could he keep a confession of murder to himself . . . keep it from the police? How could he allow a murderer to walk free? He should have known . . . should have understood the moment he walked into Albert Atwood’s living room.

Mrs. McCarthy leaned forward, laid her hand on his forearm. Her expression dropping as fear sharpened her features. Attempted to catch Sullivan’s gaze. Spoke to gain his attention. “Inspector?”

His anger . . . his frustration with the priest . . . he swore beneath his breath. If he confronted Brown now, it would do no good. A loss of temper, a threat of arrest, not enough for Sullivan. He wanted to throw everything he had into a confrontation and damn the consequences. Knew it would quickly turn into a violent encounter, Carter not willing to allow the police to treat his friend in such a way, resorting to violence to protect the priest from a very angry detective inspector.

Thought of his father.

Blinked. 

The emotion ebbed away, an outgoing tide, the energy draining from his body, limbs becoming weak. He slumped down further into the chair, back curving, his shoulders pushed forward. He felt numb, as though in shock . . . had he actually considered striking a man of God? His headache pulsed through his skull. Hand trembling, he reached up, pressed the tips of his fingers against his forehead. The anger quick to return . . . anger aimed inward, his reaction . . . used more force than necessary to massage his headache, the pain only increasing.

“I’m getting Father Brown,” said Mrs. McCarthy, standing up, her chair scraping across the floor.

Torn away from a waking memory, Sullivan turned to look up at Mrs. McCarthy, the woman standing over him. Saw the fear and concern in her eyes, her body language, both emotions aimed in his direction. He had to say something, reassure her that everything was all right. That he was all right. It would be a lie, but he wasn’t about to reveal all to this woman; his words . . . his confession quickly conveyed to Father Brown.

Another thought, one he wished he hadn’t considered. Did Father Brown tell Mrs. McCarthy about Atwood’s confession? Did he tell his small group of helpers? Gathered here in the kitchen of the presbytery for a reason. Information gained, shared amongst each other, including the confession of a killer. He couldn’t be sure; Brown so committed to the seal of the confessional or was it just Kembleford’s detective inspector the priest refused to confide in. 

His silence revealed too much, Mrs. McCarthy taking a step toward the door. He couldn’t face the priest, not yet, his emotions eager to return. He would have to calm himself further, distract with someone else. Lowered his hand, eyes covered, he closed them. Took a moment. Opened his eyes and lowered his hand, resting it on the table in front of him. Swallowed his pride, sat up straight and said, “There’s no need, Mrs. McCarthy.”

“Are you sure, Inspector?” said Mrs. McCarthy, stepping back. “You’re not yourself. You keep . . .”

Frowned at her hesitation. “Please, by all means, Mrs. McCarthy, say what’s on your mind.”

“Your mind keeps wandering off, Inspector.”

“Is that so?” 

Mrs. McCarthy wrung her hands together, a moment taken to make a decision. She sat down, her back straight. A pause before she leaned forward, her hand once again on Sullivan’s forearm. “Should I call the doctor?”

Looked down at her touch. Lifted his gaze. There must have been something written in his eyes, Mrs. McCarthy snatching her hand away. A moment of guilt, the emotion departing as quickly as it came. “No. There’s no need.”

“You’re a stubborn man, Inspector,” said Mrs. McCarthy, pushing the two white pills toward him. “At least take these, they should help.”

Speaking before his mind had a chance to catch up, Sullivan said, “Did he tell you?”

She frowned. “Did who tell me what?”

Brain still slow to catch up. “Did Father Brown tell you Atwood confessed to him?”

Her gaze steady, Mrs. McCarthy huffed, a sound of surprise and anger. “No. Father Brown would never break the seal of the confessional.” Leaned forward once more. “Albert Atwood confessed to killing his wife?”

Finally catching up to the conversation, Sullivan released a narrow breath through pursed lips. “You will keep that to yourself, Mrs. McCarthy. I spoke without thinking.”

“Yes you did, Inspector. To accuse Father Brown like that--”

“I wasn’t making an accusation.”

“What do you want to know about the Atwood’s, Inspector?” She was no longer on his side, her posture now stiff with anger and resentment, her concern for his welfare removed. 

He didn’t mind, his doubt about her growing. Mrs. McCarthy and Father Brown were very close, almost like an old married couple with a hefty age difference. Anything he said against the priest taken to heart, his words hurtful. As a detective inspector, he was use to it, often stirring up emotions of anger and hatred, witnesses and suspects always taking offence, never understanding he was only doing his job. 

No longer a conversation, now an interview, Sullivan said, “I don’t want to influence what you say, Mrs. McCarthy. Just tell me what you’ve heard . . . what you believe to be true.”

“Well, I heard,” said Mrs. McCarthy, comfortable in the environment of gossip, “and this came from the woman herself . . .”

“You knew her?”

“We weren’t close, Inspector. I accompanied Father Brown on occasion when she requested his presence to take confession. She was too sick to go to church you see. A God-fearing woman like that, Elizabeth Atwood needed confession. She was a sickly woman, Inspector. Spent a lot of time in bed . . .”

Made every attempt to keep the anger from his features, his body language, failing in a spectacular fashion when Mrs. McCarthy paused to frown at him in disappointment. 

“Don’t tell me you disapprove, Inspector? The poor woman can’t be held responsible for--”

“Did she ever talk to you about her husband?”

“If you mean, did she ever tell me about her husband’s disposition, yes she did. She told me he was a nervous man, scared of his own shadow. How a man with his physical attributes . . . not my description, Inspector. Lady Felica is not one to keep her thoughts to herself when it comes to men.”

Shifted his body with impatience. “The rumours of his nervous nature are true?”

“So she said.”

“Could she have been lying?”

“Why on Earth would she lie about that?”

“Mrs. Atwood has her own set of rumours.”

“I’ve heard a few, Inspector but you can’t blame the poor woman. Always sick, unable to take care of her home or her husband. Something like that is bound to change you.”

“How did she change, Mrs. McCarthy, and please be honest?”

“You haven’t taken the pain killers, Inspector. Or drunk your tea.”

A delaying tactic, the effort to change the subject so familiar. Picking up the pills, Sullivan swallowed them down with the help of the now lukewarm tea. Grimaced when pain spiked through his throat, the taste of something unpleasant still in his mouth. Ignored it. Ignored the biscuits set in front of him, his appetite lacking. 

“Mrs. McCarthy . . .”

“She became vindictive, angry. She was very domineering toward her husband, even when we were there,” said Mrs. McCarthy as she looked away. “The way she treated that man. So disrespectful she was. After everything, he did for her. He doted on her.”

Not the impression he’d received last night from Miss. Anonymous, a suggestion implied that Atwood had murdered his wife, confessing she was afraid of her neighbour. “Was she afraid of her husband?”

“You’re not listening, Inspector. If she were afraid of him, she would not have treated him the way she did. It’s why she needed confession.”

“How many times did you accompany Father Brown to see Mrs. Atwood?”

“On six occasions.”

“And what did you do while Father Brown took her confession?”

“I sat with Mr. Atwood.”

“What is your opinion of Albert Atwood as a man?”

She looked away.

“Mrs. McCarthy,” said Sullivan leaning forward, closer to the woman. “Anything you say to me will be confidential.”

Looked back at him, her expression full of doubt, Sullivan now unsure he could trust what she was about to tell him. “Please, Mrs. McCarthy. I’m certain Atwood murdered his wife but I need proof. Anything you tell me will give me a better understanding of the man.”

“You’re not one for gossip, Inspector.”

“I wouldn’t classify your opinion as gossip, Mrs. McCarthy.”

She smiled, a grateful expression. “I didn’t like the man. I’m sure you saw the state of that cottage. She refused to bring in help. Worried her husband would stray and he did. He was having an extramarital affair.”

Sullivan frowned, thoughts stuttering in confusion. Looked away, time taken to think. It would give motive. Her chronic illness an opportunity to make her death look like natural causes, her heart finally giving up on life. If that had been his plan, he’d failed miserably, her doctor refusing to hand over a death certificate.

“Inspector?”

Had Hartford suspected a different cause of death? His refusal to state natural causes giving him a chance to blackmail and coerce Atwood into making payment for a death certificate. If that were true . . . Atwood would have two choices; make the payment or remove Hartford, the doctor’s life at risk. Closed his eyes at the implication, a chance Hartford would need police protection. Or not, Sullivan remembering Hartford’s phone conversation, an indication of co-operation, certain he was working with Atwood and not against him. Certain they were working together against Kembleford’s detective inspector.

“Inspector Sullivan!”

Opened his eyes, looked back at Mrs. McCarthy and said, “You said he doted on her.”

“If there was any good in that man, it was that he loved his wife.”

“Enough to go out and have an affair. Is that why you didn’t like him?”

“He committed a sin.”

Sullivan nodded. “His affair? Is that gossip or do you know for certain?”

“Mrs. Atwood herself told me.”

“You’re certain.”

“Of course I am but . . .

“But what?”

“As much as I dislike the man, I don’t believe he killed her. He’s too afraid of his own shadow.”

“Fear can make a man do many things, Mrs. McCarthy.”

“If you don’t believe me, Inspector, ask Father Brown. He’ll tell you Albert Atwood didn’t kill his wife.”

“Even though he confessed?”

“You don’t know that, Inspector. Ask the Father if he believes Albert Atwood killed his wife.”

Ask Father Brown. 

No, he wasn’t going to ask Father Brown. That would be a mistake. Not in the mood to accept a refusal to cooperate with the police, for the blank expression that tried so hard to reveal very little to Sullivan. Leaned back in surprise, memories brought forward; the subtle suggestions made by Brown in Atwood’s living room: the look of approval, the direct gaze after dropping his hat onto the floor, the cough created when Atwood claimed his wife had died of natural causes. Brown had made an effort to convey information. His anger grew, not a mind reader, not able to read a given confession within Brown’s facial expressions, his body language. The man should have been more direct. Sullivan knew he should have been more attentive to Brown’s suggestions . . . he wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

“Inspector . . .”

It was time to leave, before his anger erupted, Father Brown the target. Truth now separated from gossip, from rumour . . . another motive created. Atwood now the main suspect. Results of the post mortem not yet available, Sullivan needed a plan, an alternative. Atwood had to know, Hartford giving the man information; threats not enough, Sullivan not willing to ‘back off’, possible Atwood might do a runner . . .

“I need to make a telephone call,” said Sullivan, standing up, snatching his hat and coat off the table and turning toward the door, a few seconds before he turned back to face Mrs. McCarthy. “Please.”

His intent . . . to spend the afternoon looking for the culprits involved with the physical altercation with Kembleford’s detective inspector, gain a confession, an admittance of physical intimidation manufactured by Atwood. He could then arrest Atwood, the man locked away in a small cell while Sullivan found the evidence required to charge Atwood with murder.

To do that, he was going to require a second source of protection: Sergeant Goodfellow.


	4. Chapter 4

Inspector Sullivan stepped through the open front door of the presbytery into filtered sunlight, the rain taking a required break, Sullivan grateful, his day not over. Tilted his head back and closed his eyes, a minute or two to enjoy the warmth of the sun on his face, the chill in his limbs reluctant to depart. His headache though, had done some of its own wandering, shifting, moving into a more bearable lower degree of pain, the painkillers quick to provoke a result. Again, very grateful.

“Inspector?”

The voice of Father Brown, his tone suspicious . . . cautious. Had the priest been waiting for him? Kept his anger intact, a refusal to let loose, to accuse and berate the man. Tried to convince himself Brown thought he was doing the right thing, his faith so strong, the laws of the confessional unbreakable. Couldn’t get past the hypocrisy, the arrogance . . . took a deliberate, slow breath. Reconsidered his thoughts, his assumptions . . . he couldn’t fault the priest for something an Atheist found difficult to comprehend.

“See that, Father,” said Mrs. McCarthy. “His mind has wandered off again. Something must be wrong. A headache wouldn’t do that to a man.”

Now over his indulgence, the childish need for someone else to show concern, someone to take care of his ails. Sullivan opened his eyes, lowered his head and looked toward Mrs. McCarthy – who had no doubt rushed out to acquaint the priest with the more intimate part of their private conversation – and Father Brown . . . Not alone, Lady Felicia and Carter still present. Huddled together in a small group, a collective intrusion on his privacy. Allowed his gaze to settle on Brown’s worried expression. 

“Mrs. McCarthy told me you’re troubled,” said Brown.

Sullivan pulled his gaze away from Brown, allowed it to linger on Mrs. McCarthy long enough to receive a reaction, but not the reaction he wanted. This woman seemed to fear no man.

“You didn’t ask me to be discreet about that, Inspector.”

A huff of breath. She was right; he hadn’t asked, an assumption made and a lesson learned. “I’ll remember to retain a guarantee from you the next time we converse, Mrs. McCarthy.”

“You do that, Inspector.” 

Grimaced. Refused to respond. Glanced down at his watch before looking along the road. No idea what was taking Goodfellow so long, the police station not far from either church or presbytery. Considered stepping out onto the road, to make his own way back toward the station. Decided against it, not a good idea, the two men still out there. Had a thought, mulled over it for a moment then turned his gaze toward Carter.

“Mr. Carter, you mingle with the criminal element of Kembleford do you not?”

Sid, taking a drag on his cigarette, looked back at him, his voice silent.

Pursed his lips, looked away. Looked back. “Two men. Well built, one with a broken nose, both with scars on their faces. Sound familiar at all?”

“There were two of them?”

“Yes, there were two of them,” said Sullivan, body becoming tense as he waited for the insult. Surprised when it didn’t arrive.

“Well, I hope you got a punch or two in at least.”

“I did.”

Sid nodded. “Good for you, Inspector. Looking at you, I wouldn’t have thought you were capable.”

There it was, insult thrown.

Wasn’t going to let it go. “I assure you, Mr. Carter, I am quite capable. One of the two men will attest to that.”

“They don’t sound familiar,” said Sid, shrugging off Sullivan’s confidence. “But I can ask around if you like.”

“No,” said Sullivan, turning back to the road, not wanting Carter to become the focus of the two men, “that won’t be necessary.”

“Suit yourself . . . Inspector.”

An impatient glance at his watch.

“Expecting someone, Inspector,” said Lady Felicia.

“Sergeant Goodfellow.”

“A wise decision, Inspector,” said Brown.

Flicked his gaze toward Brown before looking away. He could move further up the road, gain some distance from an inquisitive crowd. Enough room to ignore and pretend he was no longer within hearing distance. A welcomed idea, Sullivan stepped onto the road, a few steps taken, about to walk past the priest, his idea coming to an abrupt halt when Father Brown spoke . . .

“Would you like to talk about what’s bothering you?”

Stopped in front of Brown. “With you?”

“Yes.”

“No,” said Sullivan as he took another step. Stopped once more by the priest’s words.

“Then perhaps it would be best if you were to see a doctor. Mrs. McCarthy may be right, Inspector. If your injury is something more serious it may affect your ability to do your job.”

Anger and frustration fought for control, Sullivan allowing neither to control his actions. Noticed his patience had made an abrupt departure during the struggle for dominance. Wasn’t sure he wanted to keep himself restrained, no longer sure, he wanted to wait until he was calm enough to speak to Brown; the priest always able to bring out the worse in Sullivan, drawing his temper close to the surface, rarely losing control. Decided a verbal response was required . . . a need to put the priest on the back foot.

Turned to face the priest and said, “And perhaps it would be best if you were to accompany me down to the police station to make a formal statement, Father.”

Ignored Carter’s aggressive stance.

Brown lifted his chin, his gaze steady. “About?”

“Albert Atwood’s confession of murder.”

Features impassive, Brown stood with his shoulders back, his spine stiff. He stared back at Sullivan, his silence, his lack of expression confirmation. Sullivan understood now why the man’s expression when he had first encountered him in Atwood’s living room was so familiar. Angry with himself for not recognising it sooner, taking too long for comprehension to arrive. Remembered what the priest had said to him earlier . . .

“I did work it out, Father . . . eventually,” said Sullivan, refusing to look away. “He confessed to you and you kept it to yourself because of your damn seal of confession. I could arrest you for obstructing a police investigation.”

Mrs. McCarthy stepped forward, ready to defend. 

Held up his hand to stop her, his gaze clinging to Brown. “Stay where you are, Mrs. McCarthy, unless you want me to consider you an accessory. And, Mr. Carter, if you take a step toward me, I will regard your movement as an attempted assault on a police officer.”

“Now see here,” said Lady Felicia, moving to stand beside Mrs. McCarthy. “If necessary, I will have my husband call the Chief Constable about your behaviour, Inspector.”

Ignored Lady Felicia.

Waited a moment, not sure, if Carter would listen or react. When the man remained where he was, a statue of anger in Sullivan’s peripheral, he continued.

“Nothing to say, Father? Do you not have a need to defend yourself? Explain why you kept such important information from me?” Anger growing, Sullivan stepped close, turned his head slightly, placing his injury on display, holding position for a few moments before turning his head back so he could look the priest in the eye. “You’re silence caused this, Father. It wasn’t a confrontation. It was a warning. Someone wants me off the case. If you had passed on Atwood’s confession, I would have been able to make an arrest and avoid a physical assault.”

“Father Brown was only obeying the laws of the confessional,” said Mrs. McCarthy, his threat no longer keeping her silent.

Gaze still rigid, still on Brown, Sullivan said, “At what cost, Mrs. McCarthy? What if they had decided not stop when they did? What if they continued to beat me while I lay unconscious on the ground?”

That got a reaction, a flicker of emotion, of guilt but the man remained silent.

“You’re taking it too far, Inspector,” said Sid.

“I’m taking it where it needs to go,” said Sullivan, his attention diverted when Goodfellow pulled up in the police vehicle but he wasn’t done, not yet. “You once told me human behaviour speaks volumes, and your behaviour, Father Brown, is speaking in volumes. Loud and very clear. Your reaction, your silence tells me Atwood confessed to you and when this case is over, I will be back with an arrest warrant.” 

“You can’t do that,” said Sid, stepping forward.

Turned his body, gaze pulled away from the priest to glare at Carter. “I encourage you to make every attempt to stop me, Mr. Carter.”

“Sid,” said Brown, shaking his head when Sid looked at him. “The Inspector is angry--”

“This isn’t on me, Father. This is your doing and I will hold you responsible,” said Sullivan, turning away and stepping up to the police vehicle.

“He’s not angry, Father,” said Sid, flicking his cigarette away. “He’s barmy.”

“Knocked on the head too hard, I’d say,” said Lady Felicia.

Ignoring the insults, Sullivan got into the vehicle. Couldn’t be bothered with niceties, knew any polite goodbyes on his part would only cause further insults, not in the mood for something so familiar. Certain he wasn’t liked, didn’t care, their emotions a part of the job, something he dealt with everyday. Refused to look in the rear-view mirror as Goodfellow pressed his foot down on the accelerator.

.  
.  
.

“Would you like me to call the police surgeon, sir,” said Goodfellow, standing in the doorway of Sullivan’s office, hand on the doorknob, a look of concern on his features, a flush of embarrassment across his cheeks.

“No, sergeant, that won’t be necessary.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

“I’m sure.”

“A cup of tea, then?”

“Very good of you, sergeant.”

Goodfellow nodded, hesitated, a show of uncertainty. “If you’re sure, sir?

Leaning back in his chair, Sullivan frowned and said, “About the tea?”

“About the doctor.”

“I appreciate your concern, sergeant, but I’ll be fine.”

“Meaning you’re not fine now, sir?”

“If I didn’t know any better, sergeant, I would think you were being insubordinate.”

“Me, sir?” said Goodfellow, a shallow grin appearing. “I won’t kick you while you’re down, sir.”

A comfortable exchange, something more familiar, a friendlier atmosphere, something he needed. “Very benevolent of you, sergeant.”

“I’ll get you that tea, sir,” said Goodfellow as he stepped away.

“And some painkillers, please.”

Lips thinning, Goodfellow nodded and walked away, the door left open, subtle observation.

A sudden urge to lie down, to rest his head, give his headache the comfort it sought. He would wait, not wanting his sergeant to catch him in such a vulnerable position when he returned. An afternoon spent with undesirables, degenerates and drunkards had agitated his headache, pain returning to an intolerant altitude. The search for his attackers identities an unexpected failure, the men unknown, certain now they weren’t locals.

It suggested premeditation; Atwood, bringing them into his murderous plan with forewarned knowledge there would be an investigation into his wife’s death. Men brought in to stop the local police from creating assumptions . . . draw conclusions that would lead to an arrest. The two men had gone to ground, Sullivan aware they were waiting for another opportunity. 

Headache shifting to unbearable, he couldn’t wait any longer. The ability to care if Goodfellow caught him with his head down now gone. Crossed his forearms on the desk and rested his head on his arms. Closed his eyes, a soft sigh, momentary relief, pain springing back after a few moments. So far, it had been a bad day, one of his worst since coming to Kembleford. The kind of day where he could easily regret filling out the transfer request that had ultimately brought him here. Impatience and frustration part of his daily routine, the anger and pain not as familiar; it put him off balance, the pain a distraction, an interruption to his thought process.

He could feel a lethargic ache in his limbs, the day long, his energy spent. Pain unable to keep the exhaustion at bay, Sullivan could feel his mind drifting, the dark shadows a disruption, an intermission created . . . 

.  
.  
.

Voices, familiar and irritating in nature woke him. Eyes snapped open, his upper body standing upright. The movement so sudden, mind and body not prepared for movement, arms flailing. Sullivan’s fingers grasped the edge of his desk when a bout of vertigo threatened to break his balance. Nausea rolled through his stomach, felt the bile climbing his throat, the acid burning when he forced it back down. Closed his eyes, concentrated on his breathing, each breath careful in its intent, cautious.

Noticed the grey image sitting at the back of his mind, a reminder of a previous life; certain he had just endured a nightmare. Lowered his head, an attempt to hide the emotion threatening to explode; fear . . . a threat of tears. Searched for the anger resting in the pit of his gut, used it to regain control. The image faded, grateful it didn’t hold on, the memory something he didn’t want, day already bad enough. Opened his eyes . . . 

Realised he had company.

Office door still open, sergeant Goodfellow stood talking with the police surgeon, their bodies turned away, gazes directed elsewhere. Understood they were giving him a moment of privacy, time to pull himself back together. Couldn’t decide if he should be grateful for their consideration or angry that Goodfellow had gone against his wishes, calling in the police surgeon; must have looked a sight when his sergeant had returned, worry and concern forcing him to act. Came to the conclusion he didn’t have the energy to be angry or grateful.

Took the moment they gave him. Not yet willing to let go, the vertigo lingering, Sullivan relaxed the grip he had on the edge of the desk, blood flowing back into the knuckles. The tension fell from his arms, his shoulders, his neck, the muscles across his back. Became aware of the headache still pounding through his skull, so persistent, relentless. Accepted the fact he needed to see a doctor, something wrong if the headache he was feeling refused to abscond. 

An uncomfortable theory began to form. Had they done something to him while he lay unconscious on the ground? His theory turned ugly, a waking nightmare laid bare. Had Hartford done something to him, injected him with . . . fear gripped his chest, so tight he struggled to take a breath. If Hartford had injected him with a drug . . . a poison . . . there would be evidence: an injection site, a puncture wound, bruising . . . something. Tried to think. His clothing was intact when he woke, Hartford hovering over him . . . 

Jumping to conclusions, Sullivan stood up, stumbled back, chair scratching at the floor. Caught his balance before he fell. With trembling fingers, Sullivan tore at his suit jacket, struggled to remove it, a difficult thing to do. No longer calm, his emotions, his fear exposed. 

The police surgeon, not as old as the previous one, or as drunk, turned to look at him with an intelligent, scrutinising gaze, the expression quickly turning to one of concern. “Inspector Sullivan?”

Headache increasing, Sullivan ignored the man. Ignored Goodfellow as his sergeant rushed to his side, Goodfellow’s features shouting his panic and concern. Shirtsleeve problematic, fingers fumbling with the cufflink. Anxiety in control, Sullivan pulled at the cufflink, tugging it too hard, the material of his shirt tearing, giving way under the onslaught. Tossing the cufflink aside, he lifted the shirt cuff away from his wrist, pulling it up, away from his forearm, past his elbow. Searched for an injection sight, fingertips grazing across his skin. Found none. Looked between his fingers, scrutinised his fingernails . . . nothing. 

Remembered he had been lying on his right side. Moved the search to his left arm . . .

Fingers grabbed at his wrist, holding his right arm still, too much forced used, the grip painful. He pulled away, unable to escape the hold, the doctor too strong. Began to panic, so unnatural, usually so calm, anxiety not a familiar companion. His breathing quickened, a rushed sound, his chest heaving. A feeling of vertigo . . . his balance shifting, his world tilting.

“Sit down, Inspector,” said the doctor, pulling Sullivan’s chair closer. “Take a deep breath.”

Did as told, body collapsing back into the chair. Lifted his gaze to stare at the man standing over him. “He could have done it. He had motive. I was unconscious . . . he could have done it then. He could have . . .” Knew he was rambling, couldn’t stop the words as they tumbled over each other. “He could have given me an injection . . . a drug, a poison . . . he could . . .” 

Only stopped speaking when he ran out of breath, fighting to pull more air into his lungs. Tried to swallow his fear, an emotional lump at the back of his throat, a heavy knot of pain in his chest. Felt as though he were choking. Felt as though he were back in the past, a child living beneath the wrath of a domineering father.

“Try and take a deep breath, Inspector. Calm, steady breaths,” said the Doctor, repeating his instructions as he knelt down next to Sullivan. “I’m going to loosen your tie and undo the button of your shirt.”

Made an effort to do it himself first, not yet ready to feel someone else’s fingers so close to his throat. As much as he tried, Sullivan was unable to get a grip, his fingers trembling with emotion and anxiety. Dropped his arm into his lap, his frustration evident. Nodded toward the doctor, grimacing when his headache spiked, a stab of pain, sharp in its intent, burrowing through his skull. Concentrated on his breathing.

The doctor, his touch efficient, gentle, loosened Sullivan’s tie, pulling it away from his throat and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. A frown marred the man’s features, his gaze narrowing. Long fingers gripped Sullivan’s chin, turning his head to the left. Took a moment to scrutinise the small injury on Sullivan’s left cheek before turning the inspector’s head to the side and tilting his chin up. 

Goodfellow growled a soft sound of intent, of retaliation.

Sullivan flicked his gaze toward his sergeant, the man hovering over him. Goodfellow was angry; the emotion visible in his eyes, the set of his mouth . . . pulled his gaze away when Goodfellow stared back at him.

“Are you having any difficulty swallowing? Any pain?”

The pain not so bad, not enough to admit to, any small thing taking him off the case. “No.”

The doctor nodded in acceptance . . . in belief. Stood up and looked down into Sullivan’s eyes. Satisfied with what he saw, the doctor released Sullivan’s chin and stepped back. “Are you feeling any vertigo? Any nausea?”

“No,” said Sullivan. Not really a lie, the vertigo and nausea easing, no longer interested, drifting away to leave him in peace. “It’s just . . . this damn headache.”

Set his left elbow on the arm of his chair, lowered his head until his forehead rested on the edge of his palm. Took a slow, elongated breath. Another one. His panic, his fear also beginning to ease, the time the doctor had taken giving Sullivan an opportunity to gain some semblance of restraint. He had lost control; calm exterior faltering, breaking, revealing something he hadn’t felt in a long time . . . a feeling of vulnerability. He felt foolish . . . 

An apology slipped from his mouth, the words stumbling, almost incoherent. “I’m sorry . . . I don’t . . . I thought he . . .”

The reminder brought a tug of fear, a need to continue his search for evidence . . . to prove Hartford had tampered with the health of Kembleford’s detective inspector. “You have to do a blood test, doctor. If he . . .” 

Took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Sir,” said Goodfellow. “Who are you talking about?”

“Doctor Hartford. He and I have had previous dealings with each other. None of them . . . good.”

“Why would he try to harm you, sir?” said Goodfellow.

Waited a moment too long, his hesitation a revelation. He didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to admit his failure before this man. Knew he’d earned Goodfellow’s respect, the evaluation returned, even though the sergeant had his moments. Didn’t want to admit his failure to a doctor he knew little about. No real choice, an explanation required. A hidden truth would only make his situation worse; voiced suspicions suggesting he was no longer of sound mind. He had to give cause and reason, had to supply motivation, his fears more believable if he was honest.

“Five years ago, one of his patients died under suspicious circumstances. I was one of the investigating officers. He made threats . . . against all of us.”

“With all due respect, sir,” said Goodfellow. “If he made threats against you during a previous investigation, why did you go and see him alone?” 

Lifted his head, a slow movement, his gaze finding Goodfellow. “I didn’t want anyone to know I . . . we failed to get a conviction.”

“It happens, sir. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“No, sergeant. No reason to feel ashamed when you allow the man responsible for the death of a child to walk free,” said Sullivan as he lowered his head, his gaze, his expression hidden once more, shame and guilt a returning companion, a heavy ache through his chest. 

“You didn’t allow it to happen, sir.”

Eyes filling with moisture, a result of the headache – denial and distraction sometimes a good thing – Sullivan lifted his left hand, covered his eyes . . . hid the evidence of emotions too difficult to control.

“Inspector?” 

Couldn’t ignore the man standing before him. The police surgeon held too much power; if he concluded a detective inspector was unfit for duty he would call the chief constable and make a suggestion, words used, a diagnosis given, a recommendation supplied. The chief constable, no other choice available, would remove Sullivan from his current post. His own stubborn nature made cooperation just as difficult. Torn between the need for privacy and the need to reveal the truth, an awkward impression left behind; it churned his gut, a nauseating feeling but he knew what he had to do. 

He had to put his own need for privacy aside, place his emotions, his regret . . . his guilt to the back of his mind, return to it at a later time, deal with it when the case was over . . . justice for Elizabeth Atwood more deserving than a detective inspector

Eyes still damp, Sullivan turned his head, a direct steady gaze the best he could do. 

“What do you think Doctor Hartford did to you?”

“He could have done anything he wanted,” said Sullivan. “He had the time. I’m sure I lost consciousness for a short time--”

Goodfellow turned and stepped away, hand slapping against the edge of Sullivan’s desk. A puff of breath, a release of anger. 

“Sergeant,” said Sullivan, his gaze slipping toward his sergeant.

Goodfellow turned back, his anger replaced with guilt. “I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have let you go alone.”

“I made the decision to go alone, sergeant, not you.” Held Goodfellow’s gaze until the man nodded in agreement.

“Why do you think he did something?” said the doctor.

Sullivan looked at the police surgeon, gaze narrowing as he tried to put a name to the man staring back at him. The man so new to Kembleford, Sullivan had only met him twice. Hair almost as dark as Sullivan’s, his green eyes showed an intelligence and maturity beyond his age. A few more seconds and he had the man’s name. “I’ve had head injuries before, Doctor Macey. They didn’t come with this kind of headache.”

“All head injuries come with a headache, Inspector,” said Doctor Macey.

“He did something. I’m sure of it.”

Goodfellow pulled his gaze away from Sullivan to look at the doctor. “The Inspector may be right, Doctor Macey. He hasn’t exactly been himself today.”

“How do you mean, sergeant?” said Macey, turning to look at Goodfellow.

Goodfellow, now looking uncomfortable, as though he were about to run, hesitated, his uncertainty clear. Looked down at Sullivan, quickly flicking his gaze away, back to the doctor. 

“Sergeant,” said Macey, “if the Inspector is correct, I’ll need to know everything so I can determine what harm has befallen the man.”

“Well . . .”

“I give you my guarantee, sergeant,” said Macey, “that no harm will come to you if you tell me what you’ve observed in the Inspector’s behaviour.”

Goodfellow looked at Sullivan, swallowed in doubt, the inspector’s expression giving away no such guarantee.

“Sergeant,” said Macey, prompting Goodfellow.

Goodfellow let out a breath, a sigh of acceptance. “He’s been tired most of the day, dragging his feet. He’s never fallen asleep at his desk before, not even on the longest of days. Not even after Harry Gibson threw him off the roof of a barn and he . . .”

“And?”

“He’s been moody and emotional all day,” said Goodfellow, shifting his gaze toward Sullivan. “That’s not like him.”

Kept his surprise hidden, unaware Goodfellow had taken notice of his mood. His sergeant’s suspicions, his assumptions as to the cause incorrect, Sullivan certain of the cause. His past pitched into his present, a distraction at the back of his mind, taking a tight rein on his mood, twisting his emotions into a painful knot . . . closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about growing up under the influence of a domineering father. 

“So his panic attack isn’t normal?”

Panic attack? Eyes wide, Sullivan stared in surprise and confusion, gaze following the conversation. 

“No. He’s normally very calm . . . except when he’s dealing with Father Brown.”

“Father Brown?”

“A thorn in the Inspector’s side,” said Goodfellow.

Settled his gaze on Goodfellow, the man at least having the decency to look abashed. 

“A fresh cup of tea, sir?” said Goodfellow, an apology given.

“Plenty of sugar, sergeant,” said Macey.

“He doesn’t take sugar, doctor.”

“A small amount of sugar, sergeant. Please.”

“Yes, doctor,” said Goodfellow. A quick glance toward Sullivan, before walking away, out of Sullivan’s office, closing the door behind him.

“Have you ever had a panic attack before, Inspector?”

No. He didn’t have a panic attack. He couldn’t have, not Kembleford’s detective inspector . . . not him. No. Confusion and fear filled him, his chest aching. Gaze flickering across his desk, Sullivan searched through his memory trying to find any indication he had gone through this before, certain he hadn’t but he needed to be sure. So many memories no longer available, a refusal to think about particular . . . incidents caused those memories to eventually fade away, disappear and any that refused to leave, he pushed away, forcing them into a part of his mind he refused to access. It didn’t always work, memories taking an opportunity to visit him in his nightmares, alcohol not a strong enough sleeping aid during a difficult case.

“Inspector?”

He couldn’t remember having a panic attack before . . . he’d felt fear, for himself, his mother . . . fear for others during his career as a police officer but he’d learnt to control it, use it to his advantage, the adrenaline focusing his thoughts, his actions. Realised he couldn’t control it now, no longer reasonable, his thoughts no longer rational, his fear dominating everything else, oppressing his ability to function in a customary manner. 

So sure something was wrong, Sullivan turned his head, gaze staring . . . “He did something to me.”

“It could be shock,” said Macey. “You were physically assaulted this morning.”

The heat of anger curled in his gut, a welcomed feeling. He felt the need to snap, to show his anger, a way to reassert his authority, his confidence, his aptitude in dealing with aggressive suspects, his . . . a moment of insanity, an added need to lash out, to batter the man to death just to prove he was capable of doing such a thing. Looked away, made an awkward attempt to swallow down the anger, the emotion refusing to disperse. The anger uncomfortable, it reminded him of someone else . . .

“Inspector Sullivan!”

Snapped back to reality. Closed his eyes. A deep breath. Jerked back against his chair in surprise when he felt the long fingers wrap around his left wrist. A small voice in the back of his mind, soft words of assurance . . . the man standing over him was not his father. Opened his eyes, a slow movement. Lifted his head, his gaze, a small amount of fear that he was wrong, his body flooding with relief when he recognised Kembleford’s new police surgeon.

“To calm your fear and satisfy my curiosity, I’m going to look for an injection site, so please, bear with me, Inspector,” said Doctor Macey.

Breath caught in his throat, Sullivan’s gaze followed the doctor’s movements as he removed the cufflink from the cuff of his shirt, placing it on the desk. The doctor’s inspection mirrored Sullivan’s, fingers ghosting over Sullivan’s skin, searching for a puncture wound. Satisfied there was none, the doctor lowered Sullivan’s arm back on to the arm of the chair. Body becoming stiff, Sullivan suddenly uncomfortable when the man moved to stand behind him, a tight fit, a small space behind the chair, the area cramped.

“Other than the headache, is there any other pain?”

Couldn’t find his voice. Shook his head. Grimaced at the resulting pain.

“Any idea how long you were unconscious?”

Wasn’t going to move his head. Not again. No longer a choice when Macey pushed his head forward, the back of Sullivan’s neck laid bare. He shivered at the touch, the doctor’s fingers probing and searching the back of Sullivan’s neck, his shoulders. 

“A few minutes, I think.”

“Have you taken anything for the pain?”

“This morning. Mrs. McCarthy gave me two pain killers.”

“Mrs. McCarthy?”

“The church secretary.”

“Did they relieve the pain?”

“At the time, yes.”

Began to relax, the tension leaving his shoulders when Macey’s fingers ran through his hair, pulling strands aside. A feeling of amusement when the man checked the back of his ears, searching locations not so obvious to Sullivan, places a detective inspector might never have thought to look. If the man was as efficient when he examined a corpse . . . made Sullivan think of something else, something to distract his thoughts.

“Has Elizabeth Atwood’s autopsy been completed yet, Doctor?”

Macey paused in his search, long fingers hovering over the back of Sullivan’s head. “All I can tell you at the moment, Inspector, is that Elizabeth Atwood was dead for a longer period than her husband claimed.”

“I made that conclusion at the scene, doctor.”

“Yes, I’ve been told you’re not as stupid as you look,” said Macey. 

Ignored the comment as best he could. “How long did the coroner say?”

“He didn’t,” said Macey, moving away from Sullivan, making his way to the office door. Bending down, he lifted a small medical bag off the floor. Returned to Sullivan’s side. “But I can tell you that her muscles were already beginning to soften when her body was removed from the cottage.”

“Dead at least twenty four hours,” said Sullivan.

Normality. If felt good.

“At least,” said Macey, sitting his bag on Sullivan’s desk. “I can’t find any evidence that you’ve received an injection, Inspector, but I would like to perform a medical examination to rule out any physical indications that you’ve been given something detrimental to your health. And if the results are negative and you’re still confident Doctor Hartford took advantage of your unconscious state then we’ll do a blood test to deny or confirm your suspicions.”

“And if you do find something?” said Sullivan, catching the doubt in the doctor’s eyes.

“Let’s not worry about something we’re not sure of yet, Inspector.”

But he did worry, his heart pausing with fear, his breath accelerating. He could feel the tension, the fear building in his muscles, his limbs . . . knew he was about to lose control. Fingers finding and gripping the arms of his chair, Sullivan lowered his head and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think . . . didn’t want to believe his own suspicions. If he’d been poisoned . . . his life taken at any moment . . . he’d lived through so much, accomplished so little, nothing to leave behind except a few personal belongings. 

“Breathe, Inspector,” said Macey, “and calm yourself or you’ll have another attack.”

A slow, deep breath in. A slow breath out. In. Out. His anxiety level dropping but a distraction was still required, a need to keep his focus elsewhere. Opened his eyes and said, “Were there any injuries? Old or new?”

“I don’t do the autopsy, Inspector. I only make confirmation of death.”

“Did you see any injuries?” said Sullivan.

“No, but she did have a . . .” said Macey, words coming to a halt, the hesitation showing on his face. Occupied himself with something else, going through the motions of taking Sullivan’s blood pressure and heart rate. Frowned. “Your blood pressure is a little low. Could be dehydration. Your heart rate is too fast. According to your medical file that isn’t normal for you.”

“No, it isn’t. What did she have, doctor?”

Doctor Macey sighed. “If I tell you, will you stop talking long enough for me to take your temperature?”

He wasn’t a child. “Yes.”

“She had a small puncture wound on the inside of her left elbow,” said Macey, placing a thermometer under Sullivan’s tongue.

Kept the agreement, waited until the doctor was finished. Raised an eyebrow when the man hummed. 

“Elevated temperature. Perhaps you were right after all, Inspector. I’ll take some blood--”

“Send it to the crime lab,” said Sullivan, breath heavy in his throat. “It’ll be quicker.”

Macey nodded, hesitated, looked as though he needed to say something . . . “The toxicology report will tell you if there were any foreign substances in Mrs. Atwood’s blood. Anything that may have caused her death.”

Took a moment for Sullivan to realise the man wasn’t talking about the future results of his own blood test. “Hartford made a home visit the night before . . . the night she died. He said he gave her a shot of morphine to help her sleep.”

Macey stepped back. Looked down at Sullivan. “You don’t believe him?”

Swallowed, his throat dry, his heart pounding in his chest. He felt dizzy, the information too much, mind already in turmoil, emotions unsettled. “Not anymore.”


	5. Chapter 5

Shouting. 

An angry, familiar tone.

His father’s voice echoed somewhere in the back of his mind, an elapsed memory returning. A hitch of breath, his chest tight, limbs trembling as they strained to move beneath blankets thick and heavy. The claustrophobic cocoon normally a comfort, a safe haven but now, in this violent memory he felt threatened, his life at risk.

A scream.

A sound of fear.

His mother’s voice, vibrating along his spine, into the back of his neck, the painful reminder of times past piercing through his mind. Body anxious, his limbs agitated, he tried to move, to defend what was his, to protect . . . turned his head, his body; not enough, resting on his left side. Fought to hide his fear. Struggled to gain his feet, to show his height, his strength . . . his maturity. No longer a child, now physically capable of inflicting injuries on others, of drawing blood . . . of killing if necessary. Flooded with anger, aggression, his fear fled. He felt invigorated, ready to take on the threat, to protect his mother.

A given warning.

A confident tone.

Violence threatened. Evident . . .

Slumber snatched away from him, the nightmare shutting down, eyes snapping open with fear and regret. For the first time in a long time, he’d had the upper hand, gaining control, losing the fear . . . the terror that came with the terrifying images flashing through his mind. He was ready and willing to fight back, certain his was capable. Released a sigh of frustration. Felt his heart pounding in his chest, the tremors running through his body. Felt the cold sweat on his warm skin . . .

Sullivan wanted . . . needed a drink, bottle of scotch whiskey sitting lonely and abandoned in the front living room. He could almost taste the alcohol in his throat . . . no alcohol allowed though. That instruction had been an order, given in a stern voice that demanded no argument. Stared at the shadows playing on the wall instead, the sight now so familiar. 

His headache, still persistent, shuffled through his skull. He suffered the pain quietly, with dignity . . . alone. No choice, Macey insistent he take no more painkillers, the Doctor uncertain if the combination of analgesics and the substance Hartford may have introduced into Sullivan’s blood stream were only making things worse for the Inspector. Then told to go home and rest, nothing more he could do until he received the results of his blood test. 

Nothing more he could do except worry, his anxiety an aggravating distraction, the emotion foreign and uncomfortable. He knew fear, unadulterated and terrifying moments; the fear expected under the circumstances but this was different. A continuous, lingering worry, a nagging doubt, felt as though he was living in the past; his present . . . his future only a dream. 

Placed blame in a deserving place, direction of his blame accurate; Hartford and an assortment of unforeseen events tilting his life onto a sickening angle, a change of stability that left him feeling a little unhinged. Pretty damn sure Hartford’s words were intentional, an attempt to throw Kembleford’s detective inspector off balance, to complicate and obscure a process of thought, of an investigation. It worked. Sullivan too busy thinking of his past rather than the present, of the death of Elizabeth Atwood. She deserved better, she deserved more . . . she deserved a competent detective inspector whose life wasn't unravelling.

Sullivan so sure, so bloody obvious Hartford had done something to him while he lay unconscious after a physical warning. A lack of physical proof meant very little to Sullivan, his reactions proof enough. A mixture of words and an unknown drug doing so much to his emotional stability. He felt changed, different. He felt fear, anger and if he made admittance, he felt . . . desperate and very much alone.

No idea what Hartford had released into his system, wouldn’t know until he got the blood test results back, for now only concerned with the consequences, of impeding death. Hartford had made threats, an opportunity given to him, Sullivan walking into Hartford’s surgery alone; pride and secrecy giving him pause, making a decision that could have cost him his life.

A reckless mistake he would not repeat.

A slow release of breath, a soft sigh. Closed his eyes. The thought of something he couldn’t see . . . something he couldn’t fight slowly taking him away from this world caused the fear to return, the emotion tingling through his limbs, his chest, breath catching in his throat. Unable to distract his thoughts with alcohol, his mind wandered back into the past, images of his nightmare returning, a slow repeat, each image a lingering reminder . . .

A murmur of sound.

So sudden.

The noise so out place.

So close.

Thoughts distracted, Sullivan held his breath, suspicious, the noise out of character.

The sound repeated.

Sullivan rolled onto his back, turning his head, the blankets moving with him. Out of place, a shadow in the open doorway. Frowned, his eyes narrowing, understanding . . . recognition coming too slow . . . too late. 

A rush of movement. Two men coming through the open doorway, shades of darkness hiding their features but Sullivan didn’t need to see them clearly to recognise them. Here to give a second warning; certain to be more severe than the first. Heavy blankets a hindrance, Sullivan’s movements too slow, not enough time to throw the blankets aside; they had become his prison, keeping him in place, making him vulnerable . . . too vulnerable. 

They were quick, violence a second nature to them, knowledge and experience used to their advantage. They were on him before he could do anything to defend himself, the first man through the door climbing the bed and straddling Sullivan’s hips. Splayed a hand across Sullivan’s chest, keeping him down, leaning over him, giving him very little room to move, to fight back.

Tried to pull his arms from beneath the blankets, to free his upper limbs . . .

A fist struck the side of Sullivan’s head. Weak enough not to cause damage, only meant to stun, to disable, to slow Sullivan even further. It worked. Sullivan blinked, a difficult movement, shadows in the room darkening further, moisture of pain blurring his vision. Strength fell from his limbs, arms and legs pliant, his head lolling to the side. Fingers gripped his chin, a painful hold turning his head. Caught sight of a third man standing in the doorway before his gaze was pulled back to look up into the eyes of a man filled with anger and hatred.

“You were warned.”

Sullivan felt exposed, weak . . . useless. Reminded of his past. He had to fight back. He had to do something. Ignoring the weakness brought on by the blow to the head, the resulting pain, he struggled beneath the man’s weight, legs fighting for release, failing. Tried to lift his hips, to throw the man off, the weight too much, pressing him down into the mattress. More effort required to remove his arms from beneath the blanket, his hands, fingers, wrapping around the man’s wrist, an attempt to release the painful hold, muscles trembling with the effort. The physical embrace across his jaw too strong, fingers digging into his flesh . . . more bruising, the violence painted across his skin, his assailant creative.

A slap across the side of his face, a reminder of who was in control; not Kembleford’s detective inspector but the man hovering over him.

Strength used, pushing Sullivan’s chin up, driving the back of his head into the pillow, forcing his mouth closed, muscles in his neck stretching, pulled too tight. Sullivan growled, in anger and frustration. Strengthened his own hold on the man’s wrist, a frail attempt, useless . . .

Head forced to the side, gaze finding the figure standing in the doorway. Too dark, his features hidden amongst the shadows, Sullivan didn’t . . . couldn’t recognise him but the stance, the way the man carried himself . . . familiar . . . compared what he saw with Albert Atwood, a direct contrast, this man too short, not wide enough in body. Hoped it didn’t take as long for understanding to dawn as it had with Father Brown’s actions.

In his peripheral he could see the man above him moving, leaning in closer . . . too close. Felt the man’s breath hot against his skin, floating across his face, a tainted smell, something rotten. Words whispered into his ear. 

“You’ll not get another warning.” 

A released grip, the man letting go. Quickly shifted his position, confident, aggressive, raising his knee . . . a heavy weight against Sullivan’s chest, the man’s knee pressing deep, the movement of ribs and cartilage painful. His breath taken, his lungs empty. 

Head and jaw now free, Sullivan turned his head and threw a punch, aim faulty, awkward, a glancing blow. It did no good, his situation becoming more violent, the man retaliating, Sullivan flinching with expectation. The man smiled down at him, an ugly expression full of purpose . . . of intent.

Sullivan, now certain they were going to take his life, fought with everything he had left. He was going to die in a place where he had felt safe, dreams his only enemy, his only threat. Hands grabbed his upper arms, holding Sullivan down, further limiting his movements. Fear gripped his chest, lungs struggling . . . so difficult to pull in a breath. 

The second man moved in, the first man shuffling back to give him room, knee moving from Sullivan’s chest to press against his diaphragm. A hand came toward his face, the fingers stretching . . . Sullivan turned his head away, nowhere to go, nothing more he could do, his struggles becoming weak. A flash of shock when the pillow beneath him was pulled away, not difficult to figure out what the man planned to do with it. Fought so hard to take a breath, lungs already starving . . . 

The pillow placed over Sullivan’s face, a suffocating weight. Tried to fight back. Tried with everything he had left. Couldn’t. Lack of air in his lungs already incapacitating, already taking him away . . . already surrounded by darkness. Surprised when fingers grabbed his right wrist – the third man – stretching his arm out across the bed, pulling, too much anger used. Sullivan could feel the pull in his shoulder . . . could feel his consciousness waning. He knew how long it took to kill a man this way . . . 

“Christ, Harry, let him breath will ya.”

A voice snapped back, a thick East London accent. “Do you want to do it?” 

“Let up, the boss doesn’t want him dead yet. Just wants him to suffer.”

The pillow lifted, enough room created, giving him a chance to breathe; not enough room to see the third man, to make an identification, to connect a motive to an ongoing physical threat. He was unable to breathe with the knee pressing down, the weight too much, his attempt too weak. The edges of his vision began to fade, a lifeless darkness pushing in, drawing the light away as his struggles for breath continued.

Fingers wrapped around Sullivan’s throat, a gentle caress across bruised flesh . . . a contradiction to the rough hold around his wrist. The touch removed . . .

A sharp pinprick in the crook of his elbow, the injection brutal, Sullivan grunting in surprise and pain, the sound muffled, the pillow pressed back down against his face. 

“You won’t get another warning, Inspector. Stay away from the Elizabeth Atwood case.” 

A familiar voice. A stumbling assortment of words, each one difficult to distinguish, to understand and make sense of through a fading consciousness. He felt detached, his mind drifting. Limbs heavy, his body swallowed by an uncomfortable weight . . .

.  
.  
.

The sound of a ringing phone, an insistent, irritating noise.

Sullivan woke with a twitch, a faint jerk of limbs, head lifting slightly before collapsing back onto the pillow. Opened his mouth, a soft rush of breath taken and released. Mind slow to focus, like wading through a thick oncoming tide, he wasn’t sure of his situation, his location, only aware something had happened to him. Aware of something wrong. He felt ill, his head aching, his skin hot, covered with a thick coat of sweat, his bedclothes damp. Body heavy, an unacquainted weight he tried to lift his arms, to shove the thick blankets away. Couldn’t manage it, riddled with exhaustion his limbs too weak.

Eyelids drifting open, his vision blurred, Sullivan searched his surroundings, difficult to determine shapes and colours. Difficult to recognise his location . . . became aware of the sound in the next room; a phone, a hint . . . but he couldn’t . . .

He felt tired, beyond exhausted. Felt the burden of a body in desperate need of sleep. Fought the pull of slumber, something telling him if he were to sleep he would be placed in a vulnerable position . . . already too late. Understood something had happened. He knew it. Just couldn’t determine . . . couldn’t remember what . . .

Closed his eyes . . .

.  
.  
.

Rolled over onto his side, something soft against his skin moving with him, tangling beneath his arms, over the length of his legs . . . it all felt . . . different, unfamiliar. He could feel heat flowing through his body, his mouth dry, his throat sore. Ran his tongue over dry, cracked lips, a soft moan escaping with a release of breath. Shifted his body, his legs, limbs still heavy . . . fingers, the skin soft, cool, curled around his right hand, a slow embracing movement. Stilled his body, aching muscles becoming tense. 

In the background, muted voices, hard to follow the conversation, to understand their intent. Didn’t know if they were friend or foe . . .

Felt the sudden need to struggle, to fight back, to defend his physical health. No recollection to explain his emotions, his need to react . . . on the edge of his consciousness, a memory began to play like a bad black and white movie, a cast of shadows, faces hidden within shades of black and grey. Behind heavy eyelids, images shifted back and forth at a sickening angle, Sullivan left feeling dizzy and nauseated.

So sudden, a quick intake of breath, his memory became clear, all too real, a painful slap in the face. He could remember the assault now, in all its abusive detail. A second warning, more painful . . . more violent than the first. Remembered the fear, the knowledge he was going to die . . . death had come so close. So very, close. He had felt its breath as it pressed down against his face, its fingers as it coiled around his lungs, his throat . . . felt it in the darkness that had gripped his consciousness, pulling him down into a deep, black hole.

If they were still here.

Weakness lingering in his limbs, Sullivan knew he couldn’t fight back. 

Fear tight in his chest . . .

Fingers squeezed his hand, a gentle motion, reminded of the fingers brushing across the skin of his throat . . . snapped his hand away, pulled his body back, away from the source of the threat. Opened his eyes, his vision still blurred, damp. Blinked. A few moments before his vision began to clear. Recognised the person sitting next to him, the face staring back at him so familiar.

Turned his gaze away, searching . . . his location quickly becoming obvious, no longer in his own bed, now in a small room in what had to be a hospital. He relaxed back, muscles no longer tense. Closed his eyes. A deep breath. A moment to calm his beating heart, adrenaline and fear pounding through his limbs, his chest.

“I’ll get the Doctor,” said Mrs. McCarthy as she stood up, stepping away from the bed, about to turn away, a strong tone of voice used as she continued. “Don’t you dare go anywhere, young man.” Allowed her gaze to linger before turning and walking out of the small hospital room.

He didn’t think he had the energy required to leave this bed, this room. Didn’t think he could move beyond the position he was now in; the simple task of moving away from what he had assumed was a threat had taken too much out of him. He felt hot . . . too hot, head and muscles filled with a heavy ache. He felt physically exhausted . . . tired beyond repair. Felt as though death had taken him and unsatisfied with its purchase it had made a valiant effort to return him. 

He decided to put what little energy he did have into making sense of his current situation. No real understanding as to why he was here, an explanation required to sooth his confusion. Obvious something was wrong with him. No memory of his travels to the local hospital, brought here by someone else. Found by someone who cared enough to contact the authorities. A nagging doubt; had the warning gone too far, his life taken by mistake . . . too soon, their fun over too quickly, an effort made to keep him alive. He swallowed his fear.

But that didn’t explain the way he was currently feeling. If he were sick . . . a soft groan of realisation escaped through an open mouth . . . Doctor Hartford. The man had given him an injection while he had lain unconscious outside of the Doctor’s medical rooms. Hartford had taken advantage of Sullivan’s vulnerable state, used an opportunity to exact the revenge he had threatened years earlier. Had it been Hartford in his bedroom, the man giving him a second injection . . . he wasn’t sure. Couldn’t be sure, no proof, unable to recognise the third man. Couldn’t accuse the doctor of anything until he was sure . . .

Sullivan lifted his right hand, the muscles weak, so heavy with fatigue . . . something pulled at the back of his hand. Not enough energy to fight, his dropped his arm, the limb falling onto his chest, the feel of skin too hot. Looked down, noticing his upper body, left bare to cool. No energy left to move, to cover his embarrassment. Frowned when he saw the intravenous drip embedded in the back of his hand, a small strip of bandage keeping it in place.

Definitely ill then.

Or poisoned.

Darkness rested on the edges of his vision, moving forward, pushing in, exhaustion dragging him back down . . . closed his eyes.

 

.  
.  
.

Fingers brushed through his hair, his breath catching in response. Fear pulled at his chest. He shifted his body, trying to pull away, muscles straining. Turned his head, the only thing he could manage. The touch began to move, a short journey, palm of a small hand resting against his forehead. Skin soft, the touch gentle and cool against his warm skin . . . a tug of memory . . . understood there was no threat of physical violence involved. He was safe, Sullivan was certain. Let out a breath of relief. 

“Inspector?”

“Give him a minute, Mrs. M.”

“The poor man needs to eat something.”

“I’m sure you’re cooking will do wonders for his health, Mrs. McCarthy.”

A flicker of confusion, too long for understanding to arrive at its final destination, kept waiting by a mind driven by exhaustion. Familiar voices continued to converse around him, a conversation he couldn’t follow, too tired to make any effort . . .

.  
.  
.

A hand around his throat, a powerful hold, his breath forced from his lungs. A hot flush of breath across the side of his face. Words whispered, a warning given. A slap of pain through his chest . . . breath caught in his throat, he grunted with surprise. Heart pounding against his rib cage, his chest heaving, lungs fighting for breath, Sullivan’s eyes snapped open, his gaze frantic, searching, finding nothing but familiar faces standing at the end of the bed staring back at him; their eyes full of worry, expressions full of concern.

A feeling of relief, of comfort swelled through him, an encompassing emotion. Felt the fear fall away, the reprieve an almost unbearable burden. Heart calming, lungs no longer struggling, Sullivan could feel the heat of embarrassment, the emotion a quick replacement. Closed his eyes, hiding behind a thin veil of darkness.

“There he goes again,” said Mrs. McCarthy. “Poor man can’t seem to stay awake.”

Confusion stepped in, taking control. Why were these people here? They weren’t friends, often showing their resentment, something he could understand; his own continued animosity toward Brown’s meddling feeding their dislike of Kembleford’s detective inspector. A vague memory of their last encounter, his threat to arrest the priest and Mrs. McCarthy. The memory expanding, revealing too much. He had actually encouraged Carter to interfere . . . to create a physical protest just so he could . . . grimaced in disgrace, his behaviour erratic, so out of character.

“Perhaps you can talk him into a nasty case of insomnia, Mrs. M,” said Lady Felicia, a soft smile crossing her features as she looked down at Sullivan.

“As opposed to seducing him, you mean,” said Mrs. McCarthy, moving to the side of Sullivan’s bed, sitting down on the only available chair. Handbag in her lap, she reached out, fingers of her left hand gripping Sullivan’s hand, holding on when the limb jerked with surprise.

“Or boring him with mindless gossip.”

“I do not gossip!”

“Lady Felicia,” said Father Brown before she could reply to Mrs. McCarthy’s denial. “Could you please fetch the Doctor? I’m sure he’d be happy to know the Inspector has woken . . . again.”

“Of course, Father, anything to help,” said Lady Felicia taking one last look at Sullivan, her gaze drifting down toward his bare chest . . . smiled, turned and walked away, leaving the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

“Woken again. I’ve lost count, Father,” said Mrs. McCarthy with a huff of breath. “And for how long this time? The man can’t seem to make up his mind. He’s addle-brain I’m sure, Father.”

Unsure if Mrs. McCarthy had thrown an insult at him, Sullivan tried to respond, to pull his hand from her grip but she held on. He wanted to assure her his exhaustion had nothing to do with her company. Couldn’t find the energy or the words. Confusion took control of his mind, his thoughts drifting, a continuous motion, no longer able to fixate on one thing. Tried to concentrate, the effort causing physical pain, headache increasing. Struggled with his thoughts, a grimace of frustration filling his features as he turned his head, pressing his face into the pillow. He couldn’t understand why it was so difficult, couldn’t understand the exhaustion. Lost all understanding as to why he felt so tired.

“It’s not the Inspector’s fault, Mrs. McCarthy, you know that. Doctor Macey explained his condition to us,” said Brown as he stepped around the bed, drawing closer to Sullivan’s side. 

“Who would drug the poor man, Father, that’s what I would like to know? And in his own home.”

Drug?

“It’s quite possible it was the two men who warned him off yesterday,” said Father Brown. “I’m sure the Inspector will be able to tell us when he’s feeling better.”

Opened his eyes and turned his head, gaze settling on Brown.

“And how long will that be?” said Mrs. McCarthy. “I’m beginning to think he’ll never manage to stay awake.”

Sullivan made an attempt to speak, one word tumbling out, his voice soft, weak. “What?” It was a mistake to talk, even one word. Mouth and throat still dry he coughed; a cough so deep his upper body shifted, his features creasing with pain.

“Oh dear,” said Mrs. McCarthy as she released Sullivan’s hand and placed her handbag on the floor next to her chair. 

“You’re going to be fine, Inspector,” said Brown, leaning forward, patting Sullivan’s left arm. 

That didn’t answer his question. More information needed, he stared back at Brown, his confusion palpable. 

Mrs. McCarthy filled a small paper cup with water from a carafe placed on the bedside table. Changing position, she sat on the edge of the bed, leant forward, placing her left hand behind his head, lifting and turning him toward her, pulling his gaze from Brown. “Here, Inspector, drink this.”

It took too much effort. Could only manage a few small sips but the relief was immediate even though it added to his exhaustion, eyes closing.

“He’s gone again, Father,” said Mrs. McCarthy releasing her hold, allowing his head to rest back on the pillow.

Opened his eyes, staring back at Mrs. McCarthy, flicking his gaze back to Father Brown. “What happened?”

Father Brown looked away, a moment taken before returning his attention to Sullivan. “You’ve been . . . sick, Inspector.”

“What?”

“Drugged is the word Doctor Macey used, Father. They broke into your home, Inspector and attacked you while you slept. And what are the rest of us to do when even the inspector isn’t safe in his own home?”

Putting the cup back on the side table Mrs. McCarthy began to fuss, lifting the sheet up over his upper body and tucking it around Sullivan’s shoulders, paying careful attention to the intravenous drip. She patted the sheet flat, removing wrinkles . . . fussing, brushing the damp hair from his forehead before sitting back and clutching her hands in her lap. 

Sullivan didn’t know what to think but he did know how to feel; embarrassed, uncomfortable but lacked the energy to ask her to stop. Didn’t think she would listen if he did, continuing to treat him as someone who needed to be taken care of, a sick invalid . . . a flash of memory. Only recently, he had considered seeking Mrs. McCarthy’s attentions, wanting her to sit him down in front of a fire with a cup of tea and a scone. He’d forgotten what it felt like, to have someone care . . .

“Mrs. McCarthy, there’s no need to fuss over the inspector. I’m sure he’s quite embarrassed.”

“Nonsense, Father, there’s every need. The poor man is ill and he has no one to take care of him. A man his age should be married. I don’t know why he--” 

“You’re an angel and a saint rolled into one, Mrs. M.”

“Usually so healthy,” said Mrs. McCarthy as she fussed some more, another attempt to straighten the sheet covering his body. “How could someone do this to him, Father?”

“Doctor Macey assures us the worst of it is over.”

Took a slow, careful breath, an elongated release. Closed his eyes. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel like the worst of it was over. Still tired . . . still too hot. Sick . . . drugged . . . bloody Hartford. Beneath his exhaustion a slow reveal, aches and pains making a repeat introduction. He’d met them before, didn’t want to reacquaint himself with them now. The headache, irritating and inconvenient, was still refusing to renounce its hold on his body. Muscles weak, his limbs heavy, he felt lethargic, as though recovering from a debilitating illness. Couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt so bad.

Couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt so bloody miserable.

Consciousness waning, his mind becoming more muddled, he allowed his thoughts to wander.

Not only sick.

Not only drugged.

He’d almost died . . . odds in the attacker’s favour, possible he did die. Brought back with the aid of another. Is that why he was here? Recovering, not only from the drug injected into his body but also from a nasty bout of death? It certainly felt like it, not that he knew what death actually felt like . . . this was the first time in his life it had come so close. 

Felt like he was still dying . . .

“I’ve brought you some chicken soup, Inspector,” said Mrs. McCarthy. “Home made of course. We can’t have Kembleford’s best detective inspector eating anything else. People would talk. Mind you, with all the sleeping you're doing it’s only going cold. It would be a waste if I have to throw it away.”

He could feel the exhaustion as it began to pull him back down, so ready to give in, to allow it to take him once more. Certain Mrs. McCarthy was already unimpressed with the absence of his rousing conversation, he knew she would be even more put out by his inability to show how grateful he was for her concern . . . her ministrations, taking care of him as a . . . a sudden feeling of guilt, an underlying assumption . . . she would understand. 

His mind continued to drift, floating on an outgoing tide . . . snapped awake at the sound of the door opening, voices acknowledging company . . . the sound of high heels slapping against the hospital vinyl flooring.

“How is he doing?” said Doctor Macey, following Lady Felicia into the room, closing the door behind him.

“And you with a medical degree,” said Mrs. McCarthy, adjusting the sheet once again. “Can you not see he’s asleep again?”

“Mrs. McCarthy . . .” said Father Brown.

A puff of frustration released from Macey, his shoulders straight with tension and impatience.

Father Brown stepped away from the bed, from Sullivan’s side, worrying gaze steady as he looked toward Doctor Macey. “He’s still having trouble staying conscious, Doctor.”

“The drugs are still in his system, Father,” said Macey, moving past Brown. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, opposite Mrs. McCarthy, he reached for Sullivan’s wrist, glancing at his watch at the same time. “His pulse is strong, a little slow though but that’s to be expected.” Placed a large palm against Sullivan’s forehead. A soft hum of disappointment. “Still has a temperature. We’ll do another blood test shortly just to be certain but I’m sure he’ll be back to his normal self in a few hours. As long as his temperature breaks . . .”

“Ahh . . .” said Brown.

Macey looked back over his shoulder at Brown and said, “Don’t worry, Father, he’ll be fine.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. McCarthy. “You’ve already said that Doctor. More than once.”

“Mrs. M,” said Lady Felicia. “I have it on good authority the good Doctor knows what he’s doing.”

“Well, I hope so. Poor man. Sick as a dog and all because . . .”

Sullivan stopped his struggle to listen, to comprehend the words spoken . . . his attention failing completely, the voices fading quickly . . .

.  
.  
.

Sullivan felt comfortably warm, relaxed, a soft, thick heavy weight covering his body. Mind drifting in a haze of contentment, he stretched his legs, uncurling them, heels scraping against a sheet covered mattress . . . a sudden realisation; he felt better, not ill or drugged . . . almost back to normal. He still felt tired, the exhaustion subdued, his body no longer desperate for sleep. His headache, now a dull pain, lingered quietly in the background. A faint, sigh of relief escaped . . .

Not a deadly poison then.

Only enough to make a Kembleford detective inspector ill.

Why? What would it accomplish? Not the kind of revenge Hartford had threatened.

A soft crack of sound to his right . . . a sharp intake of breath. Eyes snapping open Sullivan sat up, body ready to fight back. Beaten down by a sudden infliction of vertigo, he fell back, collapsing onto the bed. Closed his eyes, waited until the dizziness passed. A few elongated moments, balance finally restored, no longer broken. Opened his eyes, his vision clear.

Turning his head, a quick glance around the room – still a guest of the local hospital – his gaze finding and resting on Sergeant Goodfellow, the man sitting in a chair beside the bed, a bedraggled newspaper strewn across his lap. Goodfellow stared back at him, mouth open in surprise, an expression of regret on his features.

“Sorry, sir,” said Goodfellow as he made a terrible attempt to fold his paper back into a neat bundle. Frustration getting the better of him, he gave up and dropped it on the floor, shoving it out of the way with his foot. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Throat still dry, his voice hoarse, Sullivan said, “It’s all right, sergeant.”

“Here, sir,” said Goodfellow, filling the small paper cup with water before handing it toward Sullivan.

Sullivan looked at it, more than tempted. Rolled over onto his right side, pulled his arm from beneath the blanket and took the cup in a trembling grip. Lifting his head, he drank as much as he could. Thirst satisfied, he handed the cup back. At least he didn’t spill it all over himself . . . surprised when he felt a little disappointed by the lack of a certain Mrs. McCarthy. Knew he was only feeling sorry for himself, wanting company for his dwindling misery . . . that’s what he told himself.

“How are you feeling, sir?”

“Much better, thank you, sergeant” said Sullivan as he tried to push himself into a more upright position, not wanting to talk to Goodfellow while he was almost flat on his back. Body moving beneath the thick, heavy blanket he found that he couldn’t really manage it. Stopped trying when he began to fear his sergeant might decide to step in and help. 

Goodfellow smiled, nodded in understanding and said, “The Doctor said you’ll be right as rain by morning, sir.”

“Is there anything I should know, sergeant?”

“Sir?”

“The investigation.”

“Sorry, sir, I’m under strict orders from Doctor Macey. I’m not supposed to talk to you about the investigation . . . no, sir, there isn’t anything new. We’ve been around the pubs and boarding houses again but we still haven’t found them.”

“The autopsy report on Mrs. Atwood?”

“I’m told it will be on your desk by morning, sir.”

“Right as rain by morning you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Just in time then.”

“Yes, sir,” said Goodfellow, looking away, gaze finding something else to look at, a distraction, a pause in conversation, obvious he had information he didn’t want to pass on.

“Sergeant?”

Goodfellow rubbed his palms against his thighs, his body language awkward. Glanced at Sullivan, looked away before returning his gaze. A deep breath before he spoke. “It’s the Chief Constable, sir. He’s organised a temporary replacement. An Inspector Exton will be arriving in a couple of days. Just while you’re on leave, sir.”

“Leave?”

“Doctor Macey is insisting you take some time off, sir. At least two weeks. Said if you went against his instructions, which he plans to tell you about in the morning, he’ll go to the Chief Constable. Sir.”

“Did he now?”

“Yes, sir. Said you’d need the rest.”

“Is that why you’re here, sergeant?” said Sullivan, not caring his tone reflected his anger. “To make sure I don’t leave.”

“No, sir. I’m the night shift. Here to make sure someone doesn't make a second attempt on your life. I’ve got PC Harrington out in the corridor, sir.”

It was Sullivan’s turn to look away, an attempt to hide his embarrassment, a moment of shame. He should have known better, working long enough with Goodfellow to be aware of his loyalty. “I’m sorry, sergeant, I didn’t . . ..”

“It’s all right, sir. You’re still not yourself.”

“Thank you,” said Sullivan, looking back at Goodfellow. “We’ll have to leave before Doctor Macey gets here.”

Goodfellow, his confusion clearly evident, said, “Sir?”

“Can’t have someone else solving a physical assault on my person. Can we sergeant?”

“No, sir. Unless it’s Father Brown.”

“Sergeant . . .”

“Not even Father Brown, sir . . . he was quite upset about what happened, sir. Blames himself for some reason.”

Sullivan was well aware of what that reason was. Atwood making a confession, Brown refusing to break the seal of the confessional. Two physical assaults on Kembleford’s detective inspector the result of a lack of communication. Felt the anger building, blame required, repercussions needed. Believed his thoughts, his feelings were driven by whatever Hartford had given him. 

Anger beginning to burn, he needed to think of something else, talk about something else. Pieces of memory still missing, Sullivan said, “How long have I been here?”

“Since yesterday morning, sir,” said Goodfellow, leaning forward in the chair, placing his elbows on his knees. 

“Yesterday?”

“Well, technically yesterday. It’s gone two in the morning, sir.”

“And how did I get here?”

“You were late and not answering your phone, sir. I was worried you’d had another run-in with those two men. When I got to the cottage, the front door was open and you were . . . I thought you were dead, sir.”

“And how did Father Brown come to know about it?”

“I believe one of the nurses called him, sir . . . to . . . um . . . one of the nurses called him.”

Turned his gaze back to Goodfellow. Saw the expression on the man’s face. Goodfellow wasn’t telling him everything, not yet willing to reveal something he deemed important. Sullivan swallowed the taste of fear in his mouth, hesitation shifting his body, adjusting his position, now on his back. “How bad was it?”

Goodfellow frowned. “Sir?”

“You said you were here to stop them from trying to kill me a second time. How close was it the first time?”

“Them, sir? So it was the same two men who warned you off the case?”

“Yes and a third man. I don’t know who he was. They put a pillow over my face . . . he gave me an injection.” Sullivan removed his right arm from beneath the blanket. Frowned . . . finally noticing he was now wearing a hospital garment. Looked at his hand, the intravenous drip removed while he’d been sleeping. 

As a way of explanation, Goodfellow said, “Your fever broke a few hours ago, sir. They had to keep you warm after that. The nurse said they couldn’t have you catching your death . . . sorry, sir, I didn’t mean--”

“It’s all right, sergeant,” said Sullivan, returning his attention to his arm. Stared at the injection sight, a large, circular, purple bruise blooming outward. “What did he do to me?”

“Doctor Macey had your blood tested, sir but all they could tell us was that it included a sedative and something they hadn’t seen before. A home made concoction he said. The Doctor thinks it was some kind of poison, sir.”

Sullivan nodded. “It certainly felt like it. I seem to remember Mrs. McCarthy complaining about me not being able to stay awake. Said I kept falling asleep . . .”

“You weren’t falling asleep, sir. Unconscious you were . . . most of the time.”

“Oh . . .”

“We were all pretty worried, sir.”

“How close was it then?”

His voice soft, Goodfellow said, “Too, close. That’s why the nurse called Father Brown. I hope you don’t mind, sir but . . . I know you’re not religious so I stopped Father Brown from giving you last rights.”

“That close . . .”

“Yes, sir.”

Sullivan swallowed his fear and closed his eyes.

“Sir?”

“Just give me a minute, sergeant.”

“Of course, sir.”

A sudden thought, dread filling his chest, anxiety churning his stomach. A moment of regret, angry at death for leaving him behind. Opened his eyes, gaze fixated on a broken tile on the ceiling. In a soft, hesitant voice, his tone almost fearful, he said, “Sergeant? Tell me you didn’t contact my next of kin.”

Goodfellow’s silence revealed too much.

Turned his head, anger filling his features. “Sergeant . . .”

“Sorry, sir but . . . the Doctor wasn’t sure you were going to make it. I called your father, sir. He’ll be here in the morning.”


	6. Chapter 6

Under Goodfellow’s meticulous scrutiny, muttered protests and indignant sufferance, Sullivan stepped into his office. Limbs betraying a slight shuffle, knees threatening an eventual collapse, he made his way to the chair behind his desk. Careful not to stumble or fall, he struggled into it . . . not as difficult as his condition suggested but more difficult than it should be . . . more embarrassing than he would like it to be. 

Slowly, carefully, Sullivan leaned back, body grateful, unintentionally releasing a soft sigh of relief, of contentment, thankful to be alive . . . not as healthy as he should be, as he was . . . Right as rain by morning Goodfellow had said, the man only relaying Doctor Macey’s diagnosis. He was wondering which morning Macey had been referring to because it wasn’t this particular morning. His body was still suffering from leftovers: pain, fatigue and a dull headache ruthlessly stubborn in its refusal to leave.

“Sir?” said Goodfellow, hovering in the doorway, body language betraying his concern, his discomfort . . . his own embarrassment. 

“Nothing to worry about, sergeant. Right as rain remember.”

“Yes, sir. Cup of tea, sir.”

“Thank you,” said Sullivan, “and some Rich Tea biscuits if you wouldn’t mind.” 

Goodfellow nodded as he turned away, his expression relaying his doubts . . . a threat to throw Sullivan over his shoulder and carry him back to the hospital. Hesitated, pausing in the open doorway, turned back to face Kembleford’s very stubborn detective inspector and said, “Are you sure about this, sir?”

“The tea or the biscuits?”

A huff of frustration and impatience. So unlike Goodfellow. “About not taking time off, sir. Doctor Macey was insistent . . .”

“Not to worry, sergeant, I’ll deal with doctor Macey.”

“Yes, sir,” said Goodfellow, turning, stepping out of the office.

“Oh, and sergeant . . .”

Stopping, Goodfellow turned back again, caring frustration still evident. “Yes, sir?”

“What time are you expecting my father?” said Sullivan, the words replaced with a smile, the rare expression lacking humour.

“Me, sir?”

“You called him, sergeant.”

A look of contrition. “Yes, sir. Any minute now, sir. I sent PC Weathers to pick him up from the train station, sir.”

“Better make it two cups of tea then, sergeant. One black, no sugar.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sergeant . . .”

“Yes sir,” said Goodfellow, turning again, impatience beginning to crease his features.

“Please ignore anything my father says. He speaks without thinking and . . .” Body twitching with embarrassment, Sullivan paused, a moment taken to make a decision, not sure he wanted to reveal so much, a few words enough to give a more detailed picture of a relationship best forgotten. Decided an explanation was needed, a warning to his sergeant. Shoulders slumping, Sullivan said, “He can be very unpleasant when he puts his mind to it.”

“Should I could call PC Weathers, sir. Tell him to return your father to the train station with a goodbye and an apology . . . sir.”

Didn’t take long for Sullivan to realise Goodfellow wasn’t asking, instead making a somewhat, polite suggestion. 

“Thank you, sergeant and as grateful as I am with your offer, I do believe it would only make things worse. And we couldn’t do that to PC Weathers.”

“Yes, sir,” said Goodfellow, standing straight, his shoulders back, a determined expression. “If you need me to run interference, sir, just let me know.”

Sullivan smiled, grateful, accepting he may actually have a part-time friend in Cotswold. Before he could voice a more sincere word of thanks, Goodfellow quickly turned and walked away, through the open doorway and out of sight. Slumping further down into the chair, Sullivan allowed his head to fall back, a slow movement, neck resting against the frame of the chair. Closing his eyes, he pulled in a deep, slow breath. Felt the pull of aching muscles . . . a slap of memory . . . a pillow pressing down . . . unable to breathe.

Blue eyes snapped open.

A tall figure in the doorway . . .

“I was told you were on death’s doorstep.”

“Death wouldn’t open the door, sir,” said Sullivan, sitting up and lowering his gaze away from his father, searching for something, anything on his desk that would create the impression Kembleford’s detective inspector was too busy for social conversation. Almost smiled when he noticed Elizabeth Atwood’s post mortem report sitting on top of his in-tray. 

“A phone call would have been polite. And it would have saved me a trip.”

Held his breath, patience threatening to leave. A slow release. “How? You were already on the train from London.”

“I’m not in the mood for backtalk, son.”

Ignoring the invitation to an argument, Sullivan stood and walked around the side of his desk. Ran his fingers along its edge, a slight pressure against the wood, his balance kept; couldn’t allow his father to see the remaining physical weakness plaguing his body. Stopped a short distance from the man he’d once feared and stared back at his father. 

There was little resemblance, Sullivan taking after his mother’s side of the family, his features mirroring that of his grandfather: black hair, blue eyes and a tall, thin build. Sullivan’s father stood two inches taller, his hair gray and thin. The dark, expensive suit did little to disguise the bulk his father carried around his chest and upper arms, Sullivan aware of his father’s strength, of what he could do . . . of what he was capable.

“You don’t look well,” said his father, closing the office door and stepping further into the room.

A need to step back, out of harm’s way, Sullivan refusing to follow a childhood instinct. “I’ll have PC Weathers drive you back to the station. The train to London leaves at seven.”

Another step, bringing him closer to Sullivan. “You don’t want me to stay.”

Polite but blunt. “No.”

“No?”

“There’s no reason for you to stay, sir. I’m fine.”

“I would think you were reason enough.”

“We both know you don’t want to stay.”

“I didn’t come here to argue with you, son.”

“Your kind of argument would only end with your arrest--”

Sullivan flinched when the door bounced open, its edge slamming against the wall, the window rattling in fear within its frame. The interruption . . . the sight of Goodfellow walking into the room unannounced . . . an unexpected wave of relief flowed through Sullivan, never so grateful to see his sergeant. How Goodfellow had known . . . possible the man had been listening, ear pressed against the door, waiting for words to indicate a need for a required intrusion . . . a need to rescue Kembleford’s detective inspector; his timing was perfect. 

Goodfellow stopped next Sullivan’s father, nudging the man with his shoulder and with an apologetic expression, he said, “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t mean to interrupt but Father Brown and Mrs. McCarthy are here to see you.”

“I would think a visit from his own father was more important,” said Sullivan’s father, his tone impatient, angry as he shifted his gaze toward Goodfellow. A quick deduction flickered in his grey eyes, a dismissive expression before returning his gaze to Sullivan. 

“Yes, sir, I’m sure it is but . . . well, sir, Father Brown is insistent.” 

Tearing his gaze away from his father, Sullivan looked at Goodfellow and frowned. If this was his sergeant running interference, he wasn’t sure he liked it. Involving Father Brown and Mrs. McCarthy . . . It was possible Father Brown and Mrs. McCarthy had no idea Goodfellow had drawn them into a plan of subterfuge.

After a brief smile, a flicker of conspiracy in his gaze, Goodfellow continued, “They’re a little early for their appointment, sir but the Father was hoping you would see them now. He knows you’re busy with a murder investigation but . . .”

“But what, sergeant?” said Sullivan, deciding there was nothing he could really do other than play along.

“His gout is acting up again, sir,” said Goodfellow, pausing to look at Sullivan’s father. “Old war wound . . .”

“Sergeant?”

“Sorry, sir. The Father says he’s got a funeral to do at eight, a wedding at ten and then he has to go see Mrs. Henderson whose husband is threatening to run off with the gardener again and then . . .”

Never knew Goodfellow could be so convincing with his lies. He almost believed him . . . almost.

“Yes, thank you, sergeant,” said Sullivan. “I get the picture.”

“And the post mortem report should be on your desk, sir. I know you wanted it first thing.” 

“Sergeant, have PC Weathers drive my father to the train station so he can catch the train back to London.”

“Yes, sir,” said Goodfellow, turning to leave, stopping before turning back. “And the police surgeon will be here shortly. Wants to discuss his findings with you, sir.”

Not so sure if that particular statement was a lie. Possible it was true. An impending visit by Macey more than likely, he shouldn’t expect anything less, Macey probably now aware Kembleford’s detective inspector had discharged himself from the Cottage Hospital . . .

Didn’t expect Father Brown and Mrs. McCarthy - picnic basket in hand - to lurch into his office. The smell of freshly baked bread, assorted pastries and chicken soup filled the room. Stomach rolling over, hunger crawled up into his throat. Couldn’t remember when he last ate.

“This way if you don’t mind, sir.”

It took a moment for Sullivan’s father to realise Goodfellow was talking to him. Body tense with anger, he remained dormant, unwilling to move, staring at his son. With a confident stance, Sullivan stared back. A standoff. Each man waiting for the other to surrender. Knowledge and experience told Sullivan his father wouldn’t make a scene in front of others, particularly strangers. No need to do anything other than wait.

Not a long wait. 

His father turned away, pausing when he saw Father Brown. 

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” said Father Brown as he reached out to shake the hand of Sullivan’s father. “Father Brown and you are?”

Ignoring the introduction, the man turned away, a slow, deliberate glance back at Sullivan. “You’re too early, Father. It seems Death didn’t want him either.” 

“This way, sir,” said Goodfellow, a hint of anger and retaliation in his voice as he led Sullivan’s father out of the room. A moment later, Goodfellow returned, upper body appearing in the doorway, his face grim. “I’ll tell PC Weathers to wait and make sure he gets on the train, sir. Unless . . .”

“Thank you, sergeant. I appreciate it.”

“Yes, sir,” said Goodfellow before stepping out of sight and closing the door.

Sullivan sighed with regret, a slight flush of anger toward his sergeant; Goodfellow had left without taking Father Brown or Mrs. McCarthy with him, leaving them enclosed within the small confines of Sullivan’s office. Interrupted before he could point out the mistake, to ask Brown and Mrs. McCarthy, with restrained politeness, to leave . . .

“Inspector?” said Brown, stepping further into Sullivan’s office. “We went to the hospital but they told us you’d discharged yourself. Is that wise? Shouldn’t you have stayed until you fully recovered?”

“No need to stay in a bed, Father. I’m fine now, thank you,” said Sullivan, turning away from the priest and making his way back to his chair. He needed to sit down . . . quickly, before he collapsed beneath the weight of fatigue, anger and memories.

“But you almost died yesterday.”

Sitting down, body relaxing, Sullivan looked at Brown and said, “‘Almost’ being the key word.”

“If you were to ask me,” said Mrs. McCarthy. “I would tell you it was a mistake. Discharging yourself like that. You still look too pale for your own good.”

Sullivan knew how he looked, familiar features reflected back at him earlier that morning as he shaved with a hand trembling with weakness, an electric shaver allowing for a safer encounter; his skin pale, grey circles under his eyes and cheeks still slightly blushed with the reminder of his illness . . . of the attempt on his life.

Aware Brown’s visit had a purpose, his stumble into Goodfellow’s ruse an accident, the priest an innocent participant, Sullivan said, “Did you want something, Father?”

Father Brown, taking Sullivan’s question as an invitation, took the picnic basket from Mrs. McCarthy and placed it on the desk close to Sullivan. Setting his umbrella and hat aside, and wearing an innocent smile, Brown sat down before Sullivan could protest . . . verbally or physically. 

Knowing there was nothing innocent about that smile, Sullivan’s anger . . . his frustration grew.

“The man who was here when we came in . . .” said Father Brown, his curiosity peaked, mind eager for more details. “Who was he?”

“Sergeant Goodfellow,” said Sullivan. 

“Very droll, Inspector.”

“We can ask the man, you know,” said Mrs. McCarthy.

“Then, please, feel free to chase after him, Mrs. McCarthy.” 

“A quick stroll would do us the world of good, Mrs. M,” said Brown, the threat of interference too clear. 

“Meddling again, Father,” said Sullivan as he lowered his gaze, reaching for Elizabeth Atwood’s post mortem report. 

“I was only enquiring, Inspector.”

“No, Father,” said Sullivan, dropping the file onto his desk, opening it, words blurring as he began to read the report. “You were invading my personal life.”

“Ahhh . . .”

Realising he’d made a mistake, his heart clenched with emotion, his breath catching in his throat.

“. . . that man was your father.”

“Oh . . .” said Mrs. McCarthy with an expression of shock and disappointment.

“Can I ask . . . I can only assume your father came all the way from London . . . why would he return so abruptly?”

Sullivan remained silent, gaze steady as he read the report, his emotions curdling in his chest, a tight knot of pain in his throat. A few painful seconds before the pain began to diminish, lungs pulling in a slow deep breath.

“You don’t want to talk about it?”

“I’ll take that as a statement, Father, not a question,” said Sullivan, as he continued to read, typed words struggling to find their way through the emotions plaguing his mind, cause of death eventually revealed. His suspicions correct . . .

“Perhaps, in some small way, I can help.”

Ignoring the suggestion, his silence his answer, Sullivan pressed his lips together, a thin line, an attempt to stop an inappropriate response, so willing to speak out of term, to insult . . . to blame . . . to release his emotions. Lowered his head further . . . He couldn’t deal with this, not now. He needed to take a moment, time to regain some semblance of control, to sort through the disruptive emotions. Couldn’t do it in front of Father Brown or Mrs. McCarthy. If he stumbled now, in front of this man . . . this caring woman, he didn’t think he would recover. 

A few minutes taken, Sullivan eventually regaining control . . .

A soft cough, an attempt to gain his attention.

Blinked. Lifted his gaze. “Spit it out, Father. Before you choke.”

“Mrs. McCarthy made you some breakfast and I thought I’d come with her in a show of support . . .”

Sullivan grimaced, expecting so much more. “Support? I doubt that.”

A puff of indignation from Mrs. McCarthy. “And after everything we did for you yesterday. A little gratitude would be in order young man.”

He couldn’t remember everything that happened yesterday, everything they did for him. Bits and pieces only, an awareness of their attendance, of Mrs. McCarthy’s administration, her complaints regarding his lack of attention. Memory more reliable, more accurate after he woke to find Goodfellow at his bedside. He remembered the assault, attacked in his own home . . . remembered the feeling of vulnerability . . . the fear of death as it came for him, its arms reaching out . . .

“I’ll ask you again, Father, what do you want? And please, tell me before I lose my patience and have someone throw you out of my office.”

“Would you like a pastry, Inspector?” said Father Brown.

“There’s also some chicken soup and bread. Freshly made this morning with my own hands,” said Mrs. McCarthy, as she leaned over the edge of his desk to open the picnic basket. “Just in case your stomach isn’t ready for something sweet.”

The sweet smell almost sickening in its strength, his stomach still clenching with hunger. Sullivan glanced from Father Brown to Mrs. McCarthy and back again. After the coldness of his father’s visit, this was too much . . . could feel his limbs begin to tremble . . . perhaps it was a lack of food, his body weak . . . in need of sustenance. He didn’t know what to say. Thank you would be a start but he felt too embarrassed . . . too awkward, not used to this kind of attention. Not since his mother . . .

“And while you’re partaking in Mrs. M’s delicious pastries or chicken soup,” said Brown, “I could ask you some questions about the incident.”

There it was, the real reason they were here. Not out of concern but a need to gain information, to investigate crimes committed against Kembleford’s detective inspector. They were here to meddle. Not surprised, he should have expected it. 

“And what incident would that be, Father?”

“Come now, Inspector, we’re both well aware of what incident--”

“I’m not a crime for you to solve.”

“I’m only trying to--”

“Meddle?”

“Help, Inspector. I’m trying to help.”

“Why is that, Father? Because you assume I won’t be able to solve the case without you,” said Sullivan, holding up his hand, interrupting Brown’s rebuttal. “I can assure you, Father, I am quite capable. Now, if you don’t mind, I have police work to--”

“Is that Elizabeth Atwood’s autopsy report?”

Sullivan, leaning forward and unable or unwilling to stop himself said, “Yes, it is, Father, but no need for you to see it. You already know the cause of death.”

Brown’s expression fell, features becoming expressionless. This time Sullivan recognised that particular look immediately, the priest still refusing to relay knowledge imperative to the investigation. Keeping information from the police . . . still, after everything that had happened. Sullivan decided not to concede, to allow Father Brown’s actions to go unpunished. An arrest for obstruction useless, the prosecuting solicitors unwilling to put a priest in jail; words his only means of punishment.

“Shall I make an assumption of my own, Father?” said Sullivan, waiting a moment for the priest to respond, to answer. When Brown remained silent, as Sullivan knew he would, he continued, “You saw the thread of cotton on the floor beneath Elizabeth Atwood’s bed but to see it, you would need to bend down, to look under the bed which means you were suspicious of her cause of death before you entered the room to give her last rights. Did Atwood say something to you during times of confession? Did he discuss how he wanted to kill his wife with you? I hope not, Father, because that would make you an accessory.”

“Now, see here . . .”

“Please don’t interrupt, Mrs. McCarthy,” said Sullivan without looking away from Father Brown. “He confessed to you, told you he’d murdered his wife before you went upstairs and you kept that confession to yourself--”

“As you well know, Inspector,” said Mrs. McCarthy, “Father Brown can’t break the seal of the confessional.”

“Yes,” said Sullivan. “Convenient isn’t it . . . for the murderer. Confess your sin. Repent. Gain God’s forgiveness and get on with your life. Albert Atwood murdered his wife, a bed-ridden woman who couldn’t defend herself and if I can’t find the evidence to prove it was Albert who murdered his wife, he’ll get away with it.”

Sullivan took Brown’s silence, his stone-faced expression as confirmation.

“And that’s not all, Father. Because of your silence, we weren't able to arrest a murderer. I was physically assaulted on two occasions, warned off the case by two men I believe were hired by Atwood . . .” Leaned further forward, enjoying the look of guilt in the priest’s eyes. “I almost died, Father.”

Sullivan felt smug. 

For a brief moment. 

Realised what he was doing. He’d taken it too far, his intent to hurt, to blame. Quickly regretted what he’d said. His attitude. Shouldn’t take his anger out on the people who showed such concern for his welfare, who sat by his bedside while he lay close to death. Letting out a sigh of frustration, he rubbed his forehead with fingers trembling with emotion. Tried to massage his growing headache away, his efforts useless, the dull pain growing, pinching the skin tight around his skull. Releasing a soft murmur of sound, of remorse, he dropped his hand back onto his desk. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t--”

“Begrudge a helping hand,” said Mrs. McCarthy. “Blame the Father for things out of his control.”

“It’s understandable, Mrs. M,” said Father Brown. “The inspector has been through a terrible ordeal. And I’m sure a sudden visit from his father hasn’t helped.”

“My father is of no concern to you.”

“Would you like to talk about it, Inspector?”

“I appreciate your offer but--”

“But,” said Mrs. McCarthy in an indignant tone, her features full of disappoint and was that a hint of anger . . .

Seeing that expression one too many times today, Sullivan snapped. Body and limbs tense with frustration, his anger erupting, he stood up and in a tone he assumed would bring no argument, said, “Enough! Both of you. I want you out of my office. Now!”

“Of course, Inspector,” said Father Brown, standing and gathering up his hat and umbrella. His surrender too quick, his eager departure unexpected. Sullivan had assumed the priest would put up more of a fight. To ask more prying questions, not stopping until Sullivan slammed the door closed behind him. Wondered if Brown had decided to take a different direction with his meddling. A terrible, abrupt thought . . .

“Father!”

Father Brown stopped, turned to face Sullivan, his innocent expression betraying his inner thoughts.

“Do not go looking for the two men who assaulted me.”

“I . . .” said Brown, mouth snapping closed before he could say more.

“They’re dangerous men, Father. What they did to me . . . if . . . if you involve yourself, or Mrs. McCarthy . . .” Thoughts pausing, interrupted when a more disturbing thought came to mind. He hadn’t considered it until now. Should have thought of it sooner. “Where’s Sid Carter?”

Brown hummed . . .

Mrs. McCarthy stepped in to help. “Sidney is with Lady Felicia.”

“And where is Lady Felicia?”

“At this moment, we have no idea,” said Mrs. McCarthy, hands clasped in front of her, small handbag swinging on her left wrist. “Do we, Father?”

“Inspector, I can honestly say that I have no idea where Lady Felicia is at this moment.”

“You may not know where they are but you do know what they're doing.”

That silent expression again.

“I implore you, Father. Do not involve yourself or your dubious associates in this matter. It will only bring you, or them, harm.”

“We’re already involved, Inspector,” said Father Brown. “You should know that better than anyone.”

Not sure, what Brown meant by that, Sullivan watched with a confused expression as the priest opened the door and walked away, Mrs. McCarthy quickly following Brown’s lead. Held his breath, expecting one of them to stop in the doorway, to turn toward him, to say something . . . a retort, a last word. He was only partially wrong.

Mrs. McCarthy did stop in the doorway, turning back to face Sullivan. Her expression softening, a smile forming, she said, “Eat something, Inspector. Please. I’m sure it will make you feel better and it may help your temperament. And I expect to find that basket empty when I come back for it.”

There was an insult hidden in there somewhere, he was certain.

Still . . . with a warm heart he watched as she walked away. Stared at the empty doorway, gaze lingering. Took a deep breath, a slow release as he discarded his emotions before the unfamiliar feeling of warmth could take a solid hold. Looked down at the contents of the picnic basket. Smiled. So much food. Realised Mrs. McCarthy couldn’t have done this on her own, help required, no doubt acquired with a stern look and a voiced threat.

As indignant as Mrs. McCarthy was, she was also very kind.

Removed an Eccles cake from the basket. Frowned at his choice, removed a second one, placing them on his desk. He didn’t normally indulge but it had been a while since his last meal. Couldn’t allow the rest of the food to go to waste.

“Sergeant!”

Pounding footsteps, a sound of panic as Goodfellow appeared in the doorway. “Yes, sir?”

“Have uniform keep an eye out for Sid Carter and Lady Felicia. I do believe they’re doing the rounds looking for the men who tried to kill me. We don’t want them coming to any harm.”

“Yes, sir,” said Goodfellow, already turning away.

“And share this around would you, sergeant,” said Sullivan, pushing the picnic basket closer to the edge of his desk. “Mrs. McCarthy expects an empty basket when she returns for it and we can’t disappoint her, not after all the effort she went to.”

Goodfellow smiled, stepped forward, hesitated and said, “Yes, sir. Do you still want that cup of tea, sir?”

“Thank you, sergeant,” said Sullivan, sitting down, reaching for an Eccles cake as he began to read the rest of Elizabeth Atwood’s post mortem report.

“Doctor Macey called, sir. Said he was on his way.”

Lifted his gaze, saw the awkward stance worn by his sergeant, the guilty expression. Knew there was more. “And?”

“I told him you were on your way to see Father Brown, sir.”

“Very good of you, sergeant.”

Goodfellow relaxed.

“And, sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sullivan felt uncomfortable, embarrassed but he was determined to voice his thanks . . . this time. “Thank you . . . for . . .”

“You’re welcome, sir,” said Goodfellow and with an appreciative smile, and a hungry look, he removed the basket from Sullivan’s desk and hurried from the room, leaving Kembleford’s detective inspector to indulge himself with Mrs. McCarthy’s Eccles cakes.

The detailed post mortem report did nothing to reduce his hunger, Mrs. McCarthy’s culinary skills too good. He felt better for it, excessive calories helping, strength returning to his limbs, his body, the weakness retreating at a slow, steady pace. Grateful his headache had also finally succumbed, leaving him in peace and without pain. Feeling more like himself, Sullivan was confident he could do his job, no reason to take time off, no reason to bring in a temporary replacement.

The report confirmed foul play, Elizabeth Atwood murdered. Signs of asphyxia, of facial petechiae . . . of white cotton fibres in her throat and lungs, the fibres similar to the fibre found at the crime scene. No injuries found on her body, no defensive wounds to suggest she had fought her killer; the poor woman smothered to death while she lay sleeping in her bed. 

The toxicology results told an unexpected story. There wasn’t enough morphine in Elizabeth Atwood’s system to kill her . . . possible Hartford had nothing to do with her death. Questions began to speculate at the back of Sullivan’s mind. Did Hartford give her the morphine to make her more compliant, easier for a husband to kill a sleeping wife? Did he do it because of a request from Atwood? Or had it been Hartford’s suggestion? Blackmail was still a possibility. And extortion.

Too many questions still unanswered.

It was time arrest Albert Atwood on suspicion of murder . . .

Sullivan’s plans interrupted when Goodfellow stepped into the room, a look of satisfaction on his face.

“Just got a call from Lady Felicia, sir. Says they’ve found the two men who attacked you.”

.  
.  
.

Expecting a painful collision, Sullivan curled his body and raised his arms in an effort to protect his head; no more injuries required, already bruised and bloody . . . another stay at the local hospital not wanted. Pain exploded, his body slamming against the wall before falling back down, landing in a crumpled heap on the pub’s beer-stained floor. Gritting his teeth against the pain, and ignoring his body’s desperate plea for rest, Sullivan struggled to stand, pushing upward with weak limbs, balance stumbling, legs clumsy. 

Shook it off . . . a need for self defence, a need to survive a third physical attack . . . no other choice, his police service pistol lost somewhere amongst the broken debris of pub furniture; alone in his defence, Goodfellow and two burly uniformed officers preoccupied with thug number two and a small group of angry, disrupted afternoon drinkers, alcohol fuelling their anger. He hadn’t expected this much trouble, this much resentment from the locals, the arrests made more difficult than they should have been. 

Hadn’t expected to find his two suspects having a pint down at the local pub, trading witty stories with the locals. The suspects round interrupted, the afternoon drinkers protesting, loud voices and even louder threats, not long before the situation had become physical; one Kembleford detective inspector and three uniformed officers against a dozen men.

Backed up against the wall and with nowhere to go, Sullivan stood in a defensive position, a confident fighting stance. Faced his opponent . . . thug number one. Body ready to give in, to surrender to the aches and pains, the exhaustion, Sullivan hoped he lasted long enough to enclose a set of handcuffs around the wrists of thug number one. 

The man stepped forward, right arm already swinging . . . the thug overconfident, more weight behind his punch than accuracy. Sullivan ducked under the expected swing. The man now off balance, Sullivan slammed his right fist into the man’s abdomen. A rushed release of breath, the man collapsing forward . . . Sullivan punched him in the throat, a powerful upper right jab. Clasping his hands around his throat, the man made a weak attempt to stand upright as he struggled to pull in a breath. 

Sullivan stopped him, tangling his fingers in the man’s hair, pushing thug number one’s upper body, his head downward, a continuous movement as Sullivan raised his right leg, slamming his knee into the man’s face; a direct hit, bone breaking, blood spurting. Sullivan released his grip, a smile of satisfaction as he watched the man go down. Waited a few moments, ready to put the boot in if the man moved to get back up . . . Sullivan grateful when the man stayed down.

Allowing his body to collapse, a controlled movement, Sullivan dropped his entire weight onto the man’s back, pressing his left knee between the man’s shoulder blades, keeping him down . . . keeping him still. Ignored the man’s efforts to breathe through an obviously broken nose as he removed a set of handcuffs from an inside pocket of his jacket. Cautioning the man of his rights, Sullivan closed and locked the handcuffs around the wrists of thug number one. 

One arrest made, Sullivan stood up and stumbled back. Taking a moment, pressing his lower back against the wall, he leaned forward, hands on his knees and took a slow, deep, painful breath. Ribs bruised, he was certain. Felt the trickle of warm blood as it travelled from his left temple, over his cheek . . . that particular punch had been painful, knocking his senses into disarray for a few agonising moments, the fight almost over before it had begun.

Lifting his head, his gaze, Sullivan searched for Goodfellow; watched with pride and approval as his sergeant head butted thug number two into oblivion, the man dropping to the floor. Second arrest made. Watched as two of Kembleford’s finest took care of what remained, most of the patrons deciding they preferred another pint rather than a night in a police cell, quickly losing interest and returning to the bar, their backs to the dwindling fight.

Sullivan pushed away from the wall, making his way toward Goodfellow, searching for his lost revolver as he went. A sound of breaking glass, Sullivan turning with surprise and expectation, his legs catching, tangling as he began to fall . . . Felt a strong grip wrap around his right arm, pulling him back up, helping him to keep his balance. Sullivan turned to offer his thanks . . . scowled at the sight of Father Brown, so close . . . too close. 

Didn’t know what angered him the most; Brown already at the scene when Sullivan arrived, or the smile he now wore. A smile full of understanding . . . of concern. Sullivan wasn’t in the mood for the emotional attention or the interference. Ready to provide a gratifying, verbal slap down, to reprimand the priest’s interference; too slow, Brown speaking before Sullivan could begin.

“I must say, Inspector, I didn’t know you could defend yourself with such . . . grace,” said Father Brown, holding out Sullivan’s police revolver. “I believe you lost this during the fight.” 

Not certain if that was an insult or an unfamiliar offer of praise. 

“You’re lucky I don’t shoot you with it,” said Sullivan, anger selecting his words as he tore the weapon from the priest’s hand. Pulled his arm from Brown’s embrace. Felt his balance shift, a moment of fear before his equilibrium returned. Put his hand up to stop Brown when the priest reached for him once more.

Putting the verbal reprimand to the side, information required, Sullivan continued, “How did you come to be here before we arrived?”

“I . . .”

Sullivan nodded in understanding, quickly coming to a conclusion on his own. “Lady Felicia called you first. Of all the idiotic things you’ve done . . . At least you had the decency to leave Mrs. McCarthy behind . . . you did leave her out of it?”

“Mrs. McCarthy is back at the presbytery.”

“Probably the only smart thing you’ve done today,” said Sullivan. “You do realise your attendance here warned the suspects of our impending arrival. If they had left before we got here . . . I could arrest you and your associates for obstruction and interfering with a police investigation.”

“I think,” said Sid Carter, pint of lager in his right hand as he shouldered his way into the conversation, stepping between Father Brown and Sullivan; a protective barrier, “a thank you is in order. You wouldn’t have found them if it weren’t for us.”

His gaze full of anger, Sullivan stepped up to Carter, a physical altercation pending.

Carter raised his left hand in a gesture of surrender, stepped back and said, “Just saying.”

Sullivan turned his angry gaze toward Father Brown. “What did they tell you?”

Brown closed down his expression, a blank stare. Familiar with that particular look, no time required to decipher Brown’s expression, Sullivan knew the priest was hiding something, certain the man had talked to the two suspects before Sullivan and his men arrived.

“They didn’t tell him anything,” said Sid. 

“Father Brown?”

“Sid is correct, Inspector,” said Brown. “They refused to tell me anything useful.”

“Now why don’t I believe you, Father?”

“Believe what you will, Inspector.”

“You always do,” said Sid.

Looked back at Carter. “One more word, Carter and I will arrest you.”

Sid stood tall, crossed his arms as best he could with a pint of beer in one hand and said, “For what?”

“Disturbing my peace and sanity,” said Sullivan.

“Sid,” said Father Brown, “go and make sure Lady Felicia is all right. I’m sure all this violence has upset her.”

“I highly doubt it,” said Carter as he walked away.

“Inspector,” said Father Brown, “it was not my intent to warn these men of your arrival. I was simply trying to help you.”

Pulled his gaze from the back of the retreating Sid Carter to look at Brown. “Your help, Father, is not needed or wanted.”

Brown nodded, opened his mouth to speak. Closed his mouth. A moment of hesitation before he spoke. “You’re bleeding, Inspector.”

“I’m well aware of what I’m doing, Father,” said Sullivan. “And I’m warning you for the last time. Stay out of my investigation. If you don’t, I will arrest you.”

Didn’t wait for a response, turning his back to the priest and walking away. Decided that one day, no doubt sometime in the near future, he would carry out his threat; arrest the priest, lock him in a cell for a week at least. There would be no need to inform the prosecuting solicitors, paper work lost on its way to their in-tray. It could even be an opportunity for Kembleford’s detective inspector to prove he was capable of solving a murder without Father Brown's interference. Allowed that thought to brew in his subconscious. 

Stepping over broken furniture, Sullivan could feel every ache in his body, the fatigue pulling at his limbs, a need to sleep, to rest and recover. Couldn’t give in to the exhaustion, still too much to do. He knew with a heavy, sinking feeling that Father Brown would make every attempt to reach Albert Atwood first. Sullivan couldn’t allow that to happen. Thug number one and thug number two would have to wait. 

“Sergeant,” said Sullivan, stopping beside Goodfellow. 

Goodfellow raised a hand, pointing toward the cut on Sullivan’s temple and said, “You all right, sir?”

“I’m fine, sergeant. You?”

“Couldn’t be better, sir,” said Goodfellow with a wink and a wide smile.

“Good,” said Sullivan. “Have the uniforms take our suspects back to the station. I’ll question them later.”

“Sir?

“We need to speak to Albert Atwood before Father Brown causes anymore damage.”


	7. Chapter 7

The street quiet, curtains of prying neighbours at rest, Sullivan knocked on Albert Atwood’s front door. Couldn’t be sure his main suspect was at home, possible the man had already absconded, nothing to indicate otherwise, the house silent. Knocked a second time, more force used, fist pounding against the door. 

Soft footfalls in the hallway, muttered curses as the lock disengaged. Sullivan stepped back, a distance of safety. The front door opened to reveal a rumpled Atwood, his face pale, eyes and nose red with the indulgence of alcohol . . . or grief, Sullivan certain it was the former. Expected outburst lacking, Atwood was silent as he turned around and walked back down the hallway toward the small, cluttered living room at the back of the semi-detached home.

Sullivan looked at Goodfellow, his sergeant shrugging in response. Feeling a twinge of pain, ribs protesting, Sullivan twisted his upper body, turning to glance back down the street. The area still quiet, so still . . . felt a chill crawling the length of his spine, a shivering echo . . . a suggested warning. Ignored the sensation, placing blame where it didn’t belong; his body, exhaustion and pain guiding his thoughts, his decisions in the wrong direction, in a hurry to get it over with before Father Brown could interfere further.

Police issued revolver heavy in a jacket pocket, Sullivan stepped through the open doorway and made his way down the hallway. Goodfellow mirrored his movements, keeping close to Kembleford’s detective inspector. Cautious, Sullivan stopped at the entrance to the living room, gaze searching for Albert Atwood. No great feat, the room so small . . . finding the man sitting on the end of the small lounge, half bottle of scotch whiskey resting beside him. 

Thankfully, no sign of Father Brown. 

Atwood, his head down, refusing to look at Sullivan, said, “What do you want?”

“Mr. Atwood,” said Sullivan as he moved forward, further into the room, Goodfellow still close behind him, moving with him. “According to the post mortem report, your wife was murdered.”

Atwood lifted his head, his gaze unsteady as he tried to stare back at Sullivan. “But I have a death certificate that says it was natural causes.”

“No, Mr. Atwood, someone put a cloth over her mouth and nose and suffocated her to death while she slept.” Sullivan frowned, confused for a moment, realisation quickly dawning. “Doctor Hartford gave you a death certificate?”

“Yes, this morning. Said I’ll need it.”

“How much did you pay him?”

“His normal fee.”

“Did you pay him to falsify your wife’s cause of death?”

“What? No. Why would I do that?”

“Is Doctor Hartford blackmailing you, Mr. Atwood? Is he demanding money to keep your wife’s real cause of death quiet?”

“No. Why are you asking me that . . . I didn’t . . . he said she died of natural causes.”

Frown growing, his forehead creasing, Sullivan felt a moment of doubt, Atwood so sincere with his response . . . so confident his wife had died of natural causes. He could be wrong. Always so wrong lately, Brown constantly coming to a correct solution while Kembleford’s detective inspector stumbled his way through a list of worthy suspects before the priest finally passed on information gained, pointing Sullivan in the right direction. 

It hadn’t been this way in the city, Sullivan able to solve a case of murder on his own, quickly moving through the ranks to detective inspector but here . . . here it was different. Already under scrutiny, his intelligence and his abilities now in doubt . . . questioned. Possible he would soon be demoted and back in uniform . . . 

Shut that particular thought down. 

Get on with the job.

“Why didn’t you tell me Hartford had been to see your wife the night she died?”

Atwood blinked, his gaze shifting before looking back at Sullivan. “The night she died . . . what are you saying? She died the next day. Hartford said she died the next day. . .”

All doubt gone, Sullivan said, “Your wife died not long after Hartford’s visit.”

“You think he killed Elizabeth?”

“No, Mr. Atwood, I think you killed your wife.”

“But . . . she died of natural causes,” said Atwood. 

“Not according to the autopsy report.”

A knock on the front door.

Sullivan froze, heart pounding against bruised ribs. A slow release of breath. Father Brown. There was no doubt. No question . . . it couldn’t be anyone else. He was determined to ignore the priest, to leave the man on the doorstep, so convinced Brown would give up and walk away . . . eventually. 

Atwood stood up, his body swaying. “Maybe, I should . . .”

“Sit down, Mr. Atwood,” said Sullivan, as Goodfellow stepped forward, right arm reaching toward Atwood, palm facing the big man. A placating gesture given by his sergeant but Sullivan knew if Atwood showed any indication of physically assaulting Sullivan, Goodfellow would respond in kind. Hoped it didn’t come to that, a physical encounter in such a small space would be bloody, violent and over very quickly.

A tense moment before Atwood shrugged his shoulders in submission and sat back down. Something nagged at the back of Sullivan’s mind, eating its way through assumption to reveal a moment of clarity; Atwood wasn’t behaving as Sullivan expected, different from their last visit. A sudden deduction . . . Atwood was showing no fear, no anxiety. The alcohol was fuelling his courage. It was possible he’d been drinking the night he murdered his wife; Dutch courage. 

Another knock at the door, the noise loud, insistent. No longer sure Brown would give up, Kembleford's detective inspector decided it was time to arrest Atwood and take him back to the station. To wait for Atwood to sober up before he questioned him further.

“Mr. Atwood, we’ll continue this interview at the police station--” 

“Albert?”

Hurried footsteps sounded in the hallway.

Out of patience, no longer waiting, Father Brown had let himself into Albert Atwood’s home.

“Sergeant,” said Sullivan, keeping his gaze on Atwood. “See to it that Father Brown leaves, with force if necessary.”

“Yes, sir,” said Goodfellow, turning away, hesitating before he turned back. “Are you sure, sir? I don’t think . . .”

Father Brown rushed into the room, hat and umbrella in his left hand. “Albert!”

Sullivan turned to face the unwanted interruption.

Albert Atwood lifted his head, his gaze steady as he reached over the side of the lounge, fingers clasping the weapon hidden from sight. Stood up and struck out, the butt of a double barrel shotgun searching for a target, an easy thing, the room small.

Father Brown’s eyes widened with surprise . . .

Instinct screaming, his body tense, Sullivan shifted his body to the right as he looked back at Atwood.

Too late.

Saw the butt of the shotgun as it came toward him, its intent obvious. Tried to duck, knees buckling . . . pain ruptured through the left side of his skull, vision blurring as his body collapsed, falling face down, a painful landing as he met the floor. 

Goodfellow reacted, an attempt to move forward, to get closer to Atwood, stopping in place when Atwood quickly switched his grip on the double barrel shotgun, turning it with trembling hands, cocking the weapon as he pointed toward Goodfellow and Father Brown.

“I’m not going to hang,” said Atwood, the words whispered, his tone full of fear.

Consciousness remained . . . Sullivan’s thoughts staggering through a cloud of confusion and pain. He felt dizzy, disoriented as he made every attempt to focus, to think, to understand what had just happened. Couldn’t think through the pain. 

“Albert,” said Brown, taking a step forward, standing next to sergeant Goodfellow. “Please think about what you’re doing.”

Using a different approach, Sullivan opened his eyes, gaze stumbling as he searched for an answer to explain his situation, not sure how he’d gotten himself into such a painful predicament. Not much to see, the floor beneath him, a blurred impression of flowers brown in colour. He frowned, grimacing at the pull of pain through the left side of his head. Tried to push a body heavy with pain up onto unstable elbows, his efforts clumsy, his body refusing to obey the simplest of commands. He needed time . . . time to recover.

“Put the gun down,” said Goodfellow as he took a discreet step closer to Kembleford’s injured detective inspector, gaze snapping downward to look at Sullivan, a look of relief passing over his features when he saw Sullivan move. Returned his gaze to Atwood. “You’re only making things worse for yourself.”

“How can things get any worse? What are you going to do? Hang me twice?”

“Alfred, you know I will do everything in my power to help you,” said Father Brown.

“When I confessed to you, you told me I would have God’s forgiveness but he hasn’t forgiven me. If he’d forgiven me, the police wouldn’t be here to arrest me,” said Atwood, lowering the barrel of the shotgun, pointing it toward Sullivan.

Seconds passed, maybe minutes, Sullivan wasn’t sure, side effects of the blow to the side of his head diminishing. Blinked, everything coming into focus, things becoming clear. Too clear. Mind no longer fighting for clarity, understanding bringing a sudden realisation to the forefront . . . he’d made a serious mistake, now in a situation that could cost him his life, the life of his sergeant . . . of Father Brown. 

What was it about Kembleford that brought out the stupidity in him?

Don’t think about it. Not now. Plenty of time to think about his mistakes later . . . certain, if he survived this, they would demote him and put him back in a uniform . . . if he were lucky. If luck didn’t play a part in it, they would transfer him back to the city, closer to his father.

“Albert, please,” said Brown as he lowered his hat and umbrella, dropping them, allowing them to fall to the floor before moving forward, hands raised in submission. “You don’t want to do this.”

Silently cursing his stupidity, his assumptions, Sullivan moved his hand toward the gun in his coat pocket, a slow deliberate movement. Could feel his confidence building as his fingers gripped the handle of the police issued revolver, a comfortable embrace around the butt of the gun. Pulled the weapon from his coat pocket . . .

“What else can I do, Father?” said Atwood as he reached down, left hand grabbing the back of Sullivan’s coat, pulling Kembleford’s detective inspector up and back. “I can’t hang. I won’t hang. Not for the likes of Elizabeth. You have no idea what she put me through. I didn’t tell you everything in confession. Not when you came to visit us, not when I confessed the other night.”

The sudden movement, his body jerked backward, Sullivan lost the grip on his weapon, the revolver falling to the floor, his only means of defence, his only opportunity to end a violent confrontation, now in plain sight for everyone to see. 

“Tell me now, Albert. Explain it to me and to the Inspector,” said Brown, looking down at Sullivan as Atwood pulled Kembleford’s detective inspector back from the center of the room. 

Dragged back, Sullivan clenched his jaw and fought to stay conscious, the movement increasing his pain, the vertigo brief but disruptive. Shoulders and back collided with a solid obstacle Sullivan could only assume was the lounge. His breath catching in his throat, he refused to give into the pain pounding through his skull, the nausea rolling through his stomach . . . the fear a tight band around his chest. Lifting his gaze, he could see Goodfellow, his sergeant flicking his gaze from Atwood to Sullivan and back again. He could see Father Brown, his expression calm as he spoke to Atwood. 

“It’s too late,” said Atwood. “And if you can’t help me . . . someone else can.”

“What do you mean,” said Brown, frowning.

He could feel Atwood’s presence, the man sitting down on the lounge, legs protruding, and partially blocking Sullivan’s line of sight. Could feel the barrels of the shotgun as Atwood placed it against the side of his head, Sullivan now understanding he was a hostage, a bargaining tool, Atwood searching for a way out, Kembleford’s detective inspector giving him an opportunity. 

Atwood, a man desperate and scared, alcohol fuelling his courage was now in control.

“I want him to leave,” said Atwood, nodding at Goodfellow.

Goodfellow glanced at Sullivan, pulling his worried gaze away to look back at Atwood. “I can’t do that.”

“I’m not giving you a choice.”

“Albert, please,” said Father Brown. “Give me the gun.”

“Make him leave. If he doesn’t . . .” said Atwood, increasing the pressure, Sullivan grimacing as he tilted his head away, Atwood following his movement, unrelenting. “I’ll kill him if you don’t go.”

His voice weak, revealing the pain and exhaustion he felt, Sullivan said, “If you kill me . . . it will be over for you.”

“After I kill you, will your sergeant have time to take the gun away from me before I shoot him?”

Sullivan conceded, Atwood was right. The room small, space lacking, if Goodfellow made an attempt to take the gun from Atwood . . . if Atwood pulled the trigger in the struggle, Goodfellow in the way of the shotgun pellets . . . or Father Brown; a bloody and violent end for either man.

“Tell him to leave,” said Atwood.

The ultimatum left hanging, the threat real, Sullivan could think of only one thing. His own life now in doubt; if he could save another, if he could protect Goodfellow . . . His sergeant was a family man, a wife and children at home. Brown was a different matter, Sullivan certain Atwood wouldn’t harm the priest.

“Do what he says, sergeant,” said Sullivan.

“Sir?” said Goodfellow, an expression of doubt filling his features.

“That was an order, sergeant.”

“Sir . . .”

“Go home to your family.”

“Sir, I can’t do that. I can’t leave you and the Father here. If something were to happen . . .”

Sullivan looked at Goodfellow. “It’s going to happen whether you’re here or not, sergeant. I would prefer to die knowing I didn’t take you from your family.”

“This isn’t your doing, sir.”

“Perhaps it’s for the best, sergeant,” said Brown as he turned to face Goodfellow. “Your presence is only provoking Albert’s anger. And I promise you, I won’t allow anything further to happen to the Inspector.”

“Go home to your family,” said Sullivan. “Please.”

“Just so you know, sir, we’ll be having words about this back at the station,” said Goodfellow. His body language reluctant, hesitant, Goodfellow turned his back on Kembleford’s detective inspector and walked away, stepping through the open doorway. Heavy footsteps as he moved along the hallway, the front door opening then closing.

Sullivan could feel the relief, the emotion palpable . . . 

“Albert, you can put the gun down now. The inspector isn’t a threat to you.”

“No. I’ve been told he’s stubborn. That he won’t give up until he sees me hang.”

“Who have you been speaking to, Albert?”

“Someone who can help me. I know, that as long as he’s alive, he’s a threat. If I let him live, he’ll only come back and arrest me.”

Sullivan closed his eyes, the pain heavy in his skull, the exhaustion pulling him away from the conversation, the words drifting away . . . Goodfellow was safe, it was all that mattered right now, confident Brown would take care of the rest, convincing Atwood to surrender. He didn’t like the idea of relying on the priest to save the life of Kembleford’s only detective inspector but he didn’t have a choice. Decided he no longer cared, accepting his imminent death . . . as long as Brown survived . . .

“Killing the inspector won’t stop your arrest, Albert.”

“This is all her fault!” said Atwood, his anger increasing the pressure against Sullivan’s head. “She wouldn’t die. I kept waiting. Kept hoping she would but she didn’t. If she just left me so I could live my life.”

“Albert . . .”

Sullivan’s feeling of relief didn’t last long, the sound of footsteps returning, Sullivan frowning in confusion, assuming his loyal sergeant had decided to ignore his order to leave . . . his plea to leave.

Doctor Hartford, carrying a black medical bag in his left hand, walked into the room. 

“Well, Inspector, it looks like you’ve been in the wars?” said Hartford as he stopped beside Father Brown.

Sullivan frowned, the confusion returning. “Hartford? Why are you here?” 

“I’ve been waiting for you, Inspector,” said Hartford. “When I found out you left the hospital, I knew you would show up here sooner or later. I didn’t expect the priest though.”

Nodding, Sullivan finally understood, the answer revealing itself. “The threats you made . . .”

“Yes, I meant every word. Every threat. I’ve been waiting a long time to punish you and the other men involved in the investigation. I chose you to be the first. Your stubborn refusal . . . your persistence in trying to gain the evidence to convict me.” 

“You knew who I was when I walked into your office,” said Sullivan, not as a question but in acceptance. He’d sat in Hartford’s office listening to and accepting his lies as truth, unable to read his intentions . . . Sullivan felt like a fool; a simpleton disguised as a detective inspector.

“Yes. When I was told you’d transferred to this small, insignificant village, I followed you.” Pulled his gaze away from Sullivan to look at the priest. “I am sorry about all of this, Father, but you shouldn’t have come here.”

“Doctor Harford,” said Brown, his expression passive. “I will always do what I can to help a member of my flock and right now, Albert needs my help. And so does the Inspector.”

Albert spoke up, gaze settling on Brown. “You haven’t done anything to help. I shouldn’t have confessed.”

“This has nothing to do with Father Brown,” said Sullivan as he struggled to move, to find a position that didn’t make him look weak or vulnerable in front of this man. Kicked in the side, the tip of Atwood’s boot finding bruised ribs, Sullivan grunted in pain. 

“You’re right of course. It has nothing to do with the priest but he’s here and there isn’t much I can do about that.”

“You can ask him to leave.”

“So he can inform your sergeant of my presence? No.”

“He’s not involved in this,” said Sullivan, refusing to acknowledge the growing confusion stretching across Brown’s features.

“Not in our state of affairs.”

“Sally Emerson,” said Sullivan, shifting his body, an attempt to alleviate the pain, the pressure against the side of his head, the barrels of the shotgun digging painfully into the skin of his temple. 

“Yes. Poor, little Sally. Her death was the result of a simple mistake. There was no reason for a lawsuit or an investigation. There was no reason to ruin my practice or my life.”

“You’re actually admitting culpability in her death.”

“I suppose I am.”

Impatience growing, Atwood said, “You said you’d get me out of this.” 

“Patience, Albert. We’ll leave when I’m ready. I’ve waited a long time for revenge.” Hartford moved forward, kneeling beside Sullivan and placing his bag on the floor. Turning to reach behind him, he picked up the revolver and placed it in a coat pocket, out of harm’s way, out of reach of Kembleford’s detective inspector. “You won’t need this.”

“Albert,” said Brown. “This man can’t help you.”

“And you can? I don’t think so, Father. Your offer of help hasn’t done anything to get me out of this.”

“Albert, this man intends to harm Inspector Sullivan. He--”

“I intend to do more than that, Father. By the time I’m finished with the Inspector, he’ll be dead. And he won’t be the last.”

“Albert,” said Sullivan, “what Hartford is saying, is that he also intends to kill you and Father Brown. Is that what you want?”

“He isn’t going to kill me. He’s going to help me and I don’t care what happens to you.”

“And Father Brown?”

“Father Brown will be fine,” said Hartford. “He'll receive a sedative to keep him quiet, enough time for Albert and me to leave Kembleford.”

“And then what,” said Sullivan. “You’ll both be wanted men. They won’t stop looking for the men responsible for the death of a police officer.”

“I don’t know about Albert but after I leave here, I’ll be heading north. You see, Inspector, when I’m done with you, I will be moving on to the next man . . . Oldfield, I think. He was in charge of the investigation.”

“You’re insane,” said Sullivan. 

“Possibly.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” said Brown. “What does Elizabeth’s death have to do with your revenge against Inspector Sullivan and who is Sally Emerson?”

Sullivan smiled, a reaction born from satisfaction; for the first time since he’d met Father Brown, the priest was stumped, unaware of what was going on, no knowledge or understanding of the situation playing out in front of him.

“Albert didn’t mention Hartford when he confessed murder to you, Father?” said Sullivan, shifting his gaze to look at Brown, the expression of confusion the priest still wore telling Sullivan he was right. Looked back at Hartford. “Sally Emerson was a patient of Hartford’s. She died from an overdose of morphine. There was an investigation into her death. Sally was nine years old.”

“The investigation was brutal, Father. They wouldn’t give up, especially this one,” said Hartford, a smile gracing his features as he wrapped his hand around Sullivan’s neck, a soft touch as his fingers traced the dark bruises on Sullivan’s skin.

Recognising the touch, Sullivan said, “You were there. In my bedroom. You drugged me.”

“Yes. Although, I wasn’t expecting you to have such a reaction to the combination of drugs I injected into your system. Imagine my disappointment when I heard the news. I didn’t wait so long for you to die so quickly. I didn’t want you to die without knowing the name of the man who took your life.”

“You also drugged me outside your office.”

“Correct again, Inspector. You really aren’t as stupid as you look,” said Hartford, frowning as he continued. “You didn’t have a reaction after that particular injection. Perhaps I should have waited longer before the second injection. It’s possible I gave you an overdose . . .”

“Just like Sally,” said Sullivan.

“Just like Sally.”

“What did you give me?”

“Ah, a good question. It was a combination of drugs that induces anxiety and anger. Your emotions are heightened. But you’re not a man prone to anxiety or anger . . .”

Flicked his gaze toward Brown, the man capable of inducing anger in Kembleford’s detective inspector. Returned his gaze to Hartford. 

“You don’t take after your father when it comes to anger. So, to create these emotions, I gave you a subtle suggestion. The mere mention of your father was enough. That much was obvious when I watched you after you left my office. All I needed to do after that was inject the drug into your system.”

“Why?”

“I told you, Inspector. Revenge.”

“Why drug me? Why not something less . . . extravagant?”

“I wanted you to suffer. I wanted you to be scared,” said Hartford. “May I ask, Inspector, how did you know I injected you with a drug outside of my office.”

“I’m not as stupid as I look. I considered the idea, and your drug did the rest. The anxiety you caused made me suspicious. Where did you inject me? The police surgeon couldn’t find an injection site.”

“Between your toes. I only had to slip off your shoe. Took me less than a minute. The two men working for me gave me the perfect opportunity. I believe you arrested them earlier although they won’t implicate me in your death. I paid them too much money for that. I could have done so much more while you were unconscious but I didn’t. Where was the fun in ending your life so quickly?”

“The phone call . . . you weren’t speaking to Albert.”

“No. That was for your benefit. I wanted you to think Albert had hired those men. I wanted to keep your attention off me for a little longer.”

“Why?”

“Because, Inspector, if you had suspected me of killing Elizabeth Atwood, you would have arrested me. I couldn’t allow that.”

“You told Albert how to kill his wife.”

“No,” said Hartford as he stared at Sullivan. “I had nothing to do with Elizabeth Atwood’s death. I was telling you truth about that night. I gave her some morphine to help her sleep. That’s all.”

“And that was an opportunity for Albert.”

“Yes, I suppose it was,” said Hartford as he reached into the black medical bag and removed a syringe filled with a clear liquid. “He called me after he killed her. I knew he would need to call the police but I told him the police would investigate. That they would also perform an autopsy and discover the cause of death.”

“You gave him a way out.”

“I knew you would be in charge of the investigation so I brought my plans for revenge forward. I told Albert to refrain from calling the police for twenty four hours so I could hire some men to do the dirty work. I also knew that once Albert gave you the name of his wife’s doctor, you would show up on my doorstep. The two men who warned you off were waiting for you with instructions to cause you injury and harm under the guise of a warning.”

“You planned all of this. All this because I believed you killed Sally. Because I tried to get the evidence to make a formal arrest.”

“Yes,” said Hartford, gaze steady as he continued to look at Sullivan. “All but Elizabeth’s death. What I don’t understand, Inspector, is why he killed her. He wouldn’t tell me.”

Sullivan tore his gaze away from Hartford to look at Father Brown. He wanted to see the passive expression, the stubborn refusal to admit he knew why Albert Atwood murdered his wife.

“He wanted a new life with his mistress but it was taking too long for his wife to die--”

“Shut up,” Atwood shouted, digging his left knee into Sullivan’s shoulder, kicking him a second time with his right leg, boot slamming into Sullivan’s side, his gaze pulled away from Brown. A snap of breath, Sullivan pausing, trying to find his way through the pain. Continued when he was able. “He’d run out of patience and decided to take matters into his own hands. But he didn’t have the courage to kill her while she looked him in the eye so--”

“He killed her while she slept,” said Hartford, nodding in understanding as he reached for Sullivan’s arm. 

He could feel the tension building in Atwood, could feel the man’s knee trembling with anxiety and anger . . . decided to push the man further, to create a reaction; a risk Sullivan knew but if he didn’t act now . . . no time left, Hartford preparing to inject Kembleford’s detective inspector with a lethal combination of drugs. Atwood was willing to allow Brown to live, but he knew Hartford wasn’t going to let the priest go, to allow him to pass on information gained, Hartford confessing his next move, his next victim.

“So he drank some Dutch courage and murdered her in her sleep,” said Sullivan. “Something only a coward would do. To murder a frail woman who couldn’t fight back . . . the man’s a yellow-bellied coward . . .”

Knew the moment Atwood snapped, Sullivan reaching up with his right hand. Fingers gripping the barrels of the shotgun, he snapped his head away and pushed the weapon toward Hartford, the doctor too busy with the sleeve of Sullivan’s coat to notice the danger he was in . . . just as Atwood pulled the trigger, the explosion loud next to Sullivan’s ear, the noise deafening. 

The back of Hartford’s head exploded . . . so close to Sullivan, blood, bone and brain matter splattering across the side of Sullivan’s face.

Atwood fell to the floor, in shock or remorse, Sullivan didn’t know. He didn’t care. He watched through vision turning dark, as Father Brown stepped forward, as the priest knelt down next to Atwood and carefully removed the shotgun from Atwood’s trembling hands.

It was over.

He was still alive.

His body jerked with surprise when he felt the hands on his shoulders, his body shaken in an attempt to draw his attention to man in front of him. Shifted his gaze . . . Sergeant Goodfellow knelt in front of him, his lips moving, words spoken, his voice subdued. 

“Sir! Are you all right?”

Sullivan couldn’t hear what Goodfellow was saying but he had an idea . . . turned his head, shifted his gaze to look at Hartford. Felt the hands on his face, large palms cupping each cheek as Goodfellow forced Sullivan to look at him, as his sergeant began to wipe Hartford’s remains from Sullivan’s face.

Understanding, Sullivan said, “I’m . . . I’m all right, sergeant. The shot didn’t . . . It didn’t hit me.”

Goodfellow nodded in acceptance and relief, the concern in his blue eyes visible.

Ignoring his sergeant’s worried expression, Sullivan closed his eyes. Felt an arm around his shoulders as his body finally gave into the exhaustion and pain, collapsing forward, falling . . .

.  
.  
.

Kembleford’s detective inspector paused, hand hovering, hesitation controlling his movements; a moment of doubt, concerned he would be turned away, his apology unheard, couldn’t blame them if they did send him on his way. A deep, calming breath, bruised ribs aching. He could do this . . . 

No he couldn’t. Lowered his arm, limb falling to his side. He couldn’t face them, not after the way he’d treated them, even if the drugs had forced a change of emotion in him . . . forced him to think, to act in a way he normally wouldn’t. Yes, the priest provoked anger, resentment but he didn’t always act on it, only raising his voice and threatening arrest when Brown had pushed him too far; the priest always had a away of testing Sullivan’s patience. 

Never had he considered using physical violence against the man, not until after Hartford had played with his emotions, drugs affecting his ability to remain neutral . . . never had he felt such anger toward another person, always calm when dealing with the difficult . . . with criminals; it didn’t help, confessions shut down at the first sign of retribution . . . of judgement, at the realisation they could hang for their crime.

Always more willing to confess to a priest.

Shaking his head in disappointment . . . in himself, too scared to face a man of the cloth, a man of understanding and forgiveness. Sullivan turned away from the door of the presbytery and stepped down onto the road; a brisk walk back to the police station would help clear his head, to remove the tension from his body. The door opened behind him, Sullivan stopping, closing his eyes at the sound of the not-so-subtle cough. 

He could do this. 

Opened his eyes and turned around . . .

“Inspector,” said Father Brown, a soft welcoming smile on his features as he stood in the doorway to the presbytery. “Always a pleasure.”

Sullivan didn’t doubt the priest, not this time. Nodded and said, “Father.”

“How are you, Inspector? Recovering nicely, I hope.”

“I’m fine thank you . . .” Not a lie, the headache gone, the exhaustion no longer dragging him down, his strength returned. Understood this was only small talk, Brown giving him to time to say what he’d come to say.

He decided to blurt out the apology, to get it out of the way. “Father Brown, I’ve come to . . .” Snapped his mouth closed, uncertain what to say . . . uncertain how to apologise. Such a simple word, a simple thing and yet so difficult to voice.

“Apologise?” said Brown.

Sullivan grimaced, uncertain if Brown was mocking him. “Yes, to you and Mrs. McCarthy.”

Father Brown smiled. “The flowers she received this morning were quite fetching.”

“Really,” said Sullivan, refusing to acknowledge his involvement in the small gift.

“Sent by someone who wasn’t willing to sign the card. It simply said, ‘Thank You’. Out of embarrassment, I would think. Wouldn’t you, Inspector?”

Sullivan looked away, the embarrassment Brown spoke of clouding his features.

“They would have more meaning if you apologised in person.”

Remaining silent, Sullivan looked toward Hartford’s medical rooms. A shiver ran the length of his spine. Reminded of how close death had come, Sullivan thought about what Mrs. McCarthy had done for him, taking care of him while he lay fighting for his life. The effort she went through to fill a picnic basket with freshly baked pastries. He hadn’t felt such concern shown his way since his mother . . .

Turned to look at Brown and said, “I can’t do that Father, she might come to an incorrect conclusion.”

“And what conclusion would that be, Inspector?”

“That I might actually like her,” said Sullivan, the soft smile crossing his features giving him away.

“Ah,” said Brown. “We can’t have that, can we.”

“Father, I do want to apologise for my actions during this case. I treated you and your associates poorly and I am sorry for that.”

Apology spoken, Sullivan felt better, a moment of relief.

“Apology accepted, Inspector and I will convey your kind thoughts to Mrs. M, even though you had little control over your actions. I, and the others, do not blame you for the things you said . . . even Sid, although reluctantly, has already forgiven you.”

He didn’t particularly care what Sid Carter thought about him . . .

“Would you like to come in, Inspector. Mrs. M has the kettle on and she’s made a fresh batch of strawberry scones.”

“Thank you, but no,” said Sullivan, tipping his hat. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“It wouldn’t be an intrusion, Inspector. You’re always welcome here.”

“Another time, Father,” said Sullivan, turning away, a single step taken before Brown spoke, the priest’s words cramping his chest, the sudden wave of emotions pulling the breath from his lungs.

“Inspector, did you know you talk in your sleep? While you were in the hospital you said some disturbing things while you slept.”

A slow breath before he turned back. 

“If there is a time when you want to talk about your father, or Sally Emerson, you know where I am,” said Brown, nodding and turning away. He stepped back into the presbytery, closing the door behind him.

Sullivan would never understand the man, he couldn’t comprehend the priest’s ability to forgive, to understand . . . to intrude . . . to meddle. Maybe, one day, he would take Brown up on his offer, to talk about his father’s violence, to talk about . . .

One day.

But not today.

Sullivan walked away, back to the life of Kembleford’s detective inspector.

 

The End.


End file.
